by Mickey Brent
Hélène cast a look behind her to make sure he was gone. Relieved, she bit into another cookie and sipped her coffee. Hmm, bitter. After dumping in a sixth packet of sugar, she switched screens to work on her precious poem.
“It envies the butterfly, free to roam,” she repeated. As Hélène savored her syrupy coffee, her eyelids drooped. The caffeine wasn’t doing its trick this morning.
“How timely!” She yawned at a butterfly fluttering outside. The rapid movements of its yellow wings mesmerized her. Before she could stop herself, her yellow hair spilled over the keyboard, and she succumbed to the pleasures of temporary mental hibernation.
*****
Hélène lifted her groggy head from her desk. I need some air, she decided, wrenching herself from her chair. In the ladies’ room, she ran an enormous pink brush through her mousy hair. She frowned at her mirrored image. As a child, the neighborhood kids had called her “dishwater Hélène,” her hair was so lifeless. Even now, despite dozens of daily strokes, her blond mop looked like it had gone through extensive dishwashing cycles. Some things never change.
Hélène searched her blue eyes for hints of liveliness. But all she saw was boredom. Removing her glasses, she squinted at the blurry face in the mirror. Time for our weapons.
She applied some foundation, then rouge, with a large fluffy brush. Powder flew into the air. She sneezed. Cocking back her head, she inserted a tube of nose drops into her nostrils and inhaled deeply. Next, she dabbed concealer under her eyes. Then she applied a sea of sparkly blue eye shadow. Cranking her mouth open, she lined her lids with teal blue, then topped them off with sticky black mascara.
Hélène’s routine in the ladies’ room never faltered. Twice a day, for the past twenty years, she had painted her face and brushed her hair in exactly the same fashion, always finishing her masterpiece with cherry lipstick.
She donned her glasses and scrunched her nose. I look better blurry.
*****
The next afternoon, a smile lingered on Hélène’s lips. In her daydream, she had been wandering the beach on a tropical island, trying to make sense of her life. She could still feel the sand between her toes and the salty breeze in her hair. She glanced at her office clock. It was 4:15.
Time sure flies when you’re working hard. She chortled. But it’s not my fault. This scientific stuff is so dry…
She rubbed imaginary sand from her eyes and sipped her coffee. The cold, sugary liquid tickled her throat. She sneezed. With a quick snap of the head, she inserted her allergy drops.
Just as she began translating again, the phone rang.
“Hélène? C’est moi. Listen…Maman’s just flown in from Spain, so I’ve invited her for dinner. I’m on my way to the airport. Chérie, can you concoct something she won’t detest for a change? A good roast, or perhaps a…”
This is all I need. Hélène’s skin crawled at the idea of another dinner with Marc’s mother. How she hated her impromptu visits to their home. Her heart beat faster. She felt the blood pumping in her ears while the room began to spin.
*****
Cecile Beaucils took her usual rounds during her afternoon pause café. After filling her mug with milky decaf, she headed straight to Hélène’s office. Not only was Cecile incontestably the most attractive secretary in the marketing department, she was Hélène’s best friend. As soon as Cecile saw Hélène—who was usually gazing out the window or typing frenetically at her keyboard—she gasped. Her best friend lay unconscious on the floor, legs splayed, with her telephone dangling from her desk.
Unceremoniously, Cecile stooped in her silk miniskirt and shook her friend’s shoulders.
“Hélène? Hélène! Ca va? Help, somebody! Help!”
Chapter Four
Sylvie Routard sat on her balcony outside her fourth-floor apartment. Light from the moon fused with the soft rays of a tiny lamp above her head, illuminating Sylvie and the plants thriving on her balcony. She wore her usual garb—denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt. There was nothing she would rather do than spend a quiet evening reading a good novel outdoors.
But she wasn’t alone in the cool summer breeze. As usual, she indulged in the warmth of Goldie, her orange cat, curled up in her lap. Evenings like this meant pure pleasure. Savoring her owner’s infinite caresses, Goldie purred while Sylvie hummed, creating a unique melody to enhance the soft Greek music emanating from the living room.
Sylvie reached for her Greek cocktail. When Goldie hopped off her lap, her bushy tail knocked off an orange flower. Sylvie stopped humming.
“Look what you did to our new plant!” She brought the severed flower to her nose, inhaling its sugary nectar. Then she plopped the flower into her Greek cocktail and brought her glass to her lips. Peering at the silvery moon, she started humming again.
Surrounded by so many plants, she felt like Jane of the Jungle, although the only wild animal in her midst was Goldie, purring at her bare feet. Suddenly, she felt an unexpected surge of energy. As she swayed her muscular hips, the impromptu nocturnal dance made her cat purr even harder. A tiny stream of cocktail landed on the ground. Before Sylvie could stop her, Goldie lapped it up.
“And I thought I was the wild one!” exclaimed Sylvie.
*****
Sylvie sat with her sneakered feet dangling over a bar stool at her neighborhood hangout, Dionysos Taverna. Her white T-shirt and worn blue jeans blended into the Greek restaurant’s faded blue and whitewashed walls. A dark-haired waiter stood nearby, watching her contemplate where to next poke her fork. She was hesitating between three succulent dishes.
“This is so intense!” she exclaimed in Greek, inserting another forkful of eggplant soufflé into her mouth. She closed her eyes as her tongue detected the familiar spices from Santorini that rendered these dishes so special. Mmm…cinnamon. Her eyeballs rolled in their sockets.
“You’re exaggerating, i kopela mou.” The olive-skinned waiter blew circles of smoke from his cigarette into her hair.
“Stop polluting my air, Vassilios,” scolded Sylvie. “You’re ruining my appetite.”
“Come on, Syl. It would take a forest fire to separate you from your dinner. And that’s only if it started burning your luscious hair.” The waiter tapped Sylvie playfully on the shoulder. Sylvie tapped him back, harder.
“All right, you win.” Rubbing his rugged shoulder, the waiter stubbed out his cigarette and lifted his retsina wine.
Clinking her glass against his, Sylvie parted her lips, inviting the chilled white nectar of her homeland into her mouth.
*****
Sylvie’s eyes snapped open. Orange light streamed into her bedroom, dancing through the soft curtains, illuminating her bed. She grabbed her cat from her perch and hugged her to her pajamas. “Mon petit chou!”
Sylvie tied back her hair, threw on a sweatshirt, and jogged down the stairs of her apartment building. Outside, she took a whiff of fresh air and crossed the street. She was pushing on a tree trunk to stretch her Achilles tendon when a car approached with teenage boys inside. One rolled down the window.
“Push all you want, Madame. It ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
“How clever,” Sylvie announced over the boys’ ensuing sneers. The car sped away.
Twenty minutes later, she reached a grassy park. Catching her breath, she scanned the wide expanse of grass, dotted with tall pines and rows of freshly planted blossoms. Her heart pounded under her moist sweatshirt, matching her rapid breathing.
Belly first, she plopped on the lawn and furrowed her nose into tufts of grass.
Bet there’s a four-leafer around here. She weaved her fingertips through patches of dark green clovers. The scent of dewy grass mixed with dirt filled her nostrils. As her heartbeat decelerated, her body—splayed comfortably on the grass—relaxed. Her spirit felt in tune with the world.
Voilà! She plucked a four-leaf clover from the grass, inspected it, then tucked it into her shorts pocket.
Once home, after a hot shower, she ventured o
ut to her terrace for a well-deserved, healthy breakfast.
“Look what Maman found.” She twirled the clover in front of Goldie’s nose.
“We’re getting lucky, bébé!” she announced, digging her spoon into a huge bowl of muesli.
*****
Sylvie lay upon her spacious bed with her blue-jeaned limbs sprawled open. An orange ceiling light cast a warm glow through thin paper onto her face; her eyes were peacefully shut.
Dozens of black-and-white photos surrounded her immobile, athletic silhouette, peppering the silk orange bedcover. Purring on an embroidered cushion, Goldie lay next to her mistress, paws clinging to her thick, wavy hair. Sylvie’s lips softened as her ears absorbed the nearby purring mingled with her melodious Greek Gypsy music.
On evenings like this, after endless hours developing her week’s photos—Sylvie spent nearly all her free time taking pictures—she loved to chill. Her mind would wander, imagining she were a bohemian with no cares in the world. As her weary muscles sank deeper into the heavenly bedspread, she wished life could always be so comfortable. A lively Gypsy song from a Greek CD freshly unearthed at the market roused Sylvie’s placid thoughts. Her eyes went to the window’s lacy curtains flowing in the evening breeze. Matching the song’s rhythm, they spread full and collapsed, like sails adorning the ships from her native island.
With each powerful note, traces of Sylvie’s ancestors entered her mind, bringing back tender memories of Santorini, her colorful neighborhood, her family…
She smiled, thinking of her beloved grandma, Yaya, who used to grasp her fingers and proclaim in her throaty Greek voice, “Soak up the pleasures in life, honey. Every little bit of ’em. Make ’em seep through your pores till you burst.” She would stare into her granddaughter’s innocent eyes and continue, “And never be afraid of love. When it hits, make sure you grab it with both hands. ’Cause you never know when it’s going to leave you for good.”
Sylvie often found herself pondering the implication of Yaya’s message. In her thirty-six years, it hadn’t made much sense so far. But her grandma never failed to utter it, especially on significant days like Sylvie’s parents’ anniversary or a birthday. Opening her weathered lips, Yaya would pronounce each sentence ever so slowly. Like a divine affirmation, she would gently lift her tongue and release her magic message.
Just then, Sylvie felt a presence as if Yaya were lying beside her. Searching for comfort, she stroked Goldie, who lifted her drowsy head. Wonder how she’s doing. Maybe I should give her a call. The thought lingered in her mind until fatigue won out and Sylvie’s eyelids folded again. Goldie snuggled up to her mistress and, within seconds, purred them both to sleep.
Chapter Five
I feel like such an idiot, thought Hélène for the fiftieth time that evening. Clad in Marc’s old sports clothes and a red cycling helmet, she straddled her new bike. Hope nobody can see me.
Hélène began to pedal. Marc gripped her side as she carved wide circles in the parking lot.
“You’re on your own,” he announced, letting go. Instantly, the front wheel wobbled.
“Aaaiie!” yelped Hélène, hitting the asphalt.
“You’ll be fine, chérie. Try again.”
Hélène shook her head. “Non, I’ve had enough for today.”
“But we just started.”
“I feel like such a loser.” I am a loser. “I quit.”
Her thoughts flashed back to a recent difficult conversation with her doctor.
After Hélène had fainted at work, Dr. Duprès gave her a pile of medical pamphlets, instructing her to change her diet and exercise more. “Why don’t you try running, cycling, or swimming—”
“I don’t exactly do sports.” Hélène blushed, staring at her chubby ankles, remembering how her teachers forced her to participate in gym classes. Nobody would pick her for kickball, or volleyball, or softball, she was so uncoordinated.
Dr. Duprès continued, “To start, I suggest you go walking or ride your bike, at least a half hour every day.”
“Every day?” Hélène’s voice had cracked.
“Exactement. You’ll get used to it. You’ll even start to like it.” Dr. Duprès had smiled. “You’ll have more energy too.”
Hélène’s thoughts returned to the parking lot as Marc pulled his wife to her feet. “Just one more time.”
He held the back of her bike as she pedaled. “That’s great, chérie. You’re an athlete!”
An athlete? she thought. More like a toddler. “Merde!” she yelled as her body flew sideways.
After practicing unsuccessfully each morning, instead of losing weight, Hélène was losing her patience. One rainy day, however, a voice inside her head whispered, Give it one more try. Hélène shrugged her soggy shoulders and complied. To her surprise, she pedaled down the street without falling.
“Regardez-moi!” she yelled through the downpour. A feeling of triumph swept over her as tears formed in her eyes.
The voice told her: Tomorrow, you’re biking to work. And every day after that.
Hélène squinted at the swollen clouds. What are you trying to tell me?
In response, a drop of rain trickled down her helmet into her eye, mingling with her salty tears. She nodded solemnly at the clouds, oblivious of how this vow would forever transform her life.
*****
The next morning, Hélène swung a leg over her bike. After a loud rrrriiiiipppp, she plunged toward the pavement. Quelle idiote. Nobody bikes in a skirt. Limping into the house, she reappeared in faded stretch pants. She pedaled slowly; each time a car passed, she veered toward the curb.
Then she spotted a figure jogging along the sidewalk.
The woman wore shorts and a white T-shirt, her dark hair bouncing over broad shoulders. Hélène gasped, recognizing the tan, muscular legs. It’s her!
She sped. Just before she caught up with the woman, she heard Honk! Honk!
“Aaaiiiee!” she screamed, swerving to the right. A school bus was heading straight at her. Struggling to control her wiggly front wheel, she caught a diagonal glimpse of the white T-shirt before her body soared over the handlebars.
“Idiote! Trying to get yourself killed?” yelled the driver as his bus skidded past Hélène’s body, sprawled on the curb.
Hélène lifted an eyelid. What a spectacular move. She jiggled her head, just like she did with used lightbulbs, as she cautiously mounted her bike. Good. No broken bits.
Her smile faded as soon as the woman in the T-shirt waved.
Mon Dieu, it’s her. The goddess! Hélène cringed. Perfect timing.
The goddess hollered something that resembled a “bonjour” and continued jogging down the street.
Hélène scanned the sidewalk until the T-shirt disappeared. I hope she didn’t recognize me. I’m such a klutz. She wiped off the sweat trickling down her face. Wonder what they’ll think of me at the office?
*****
Hélène ran straight into the ladies’ room. The mirror made her skid to a stop. Her wet face was unbelievably red—and glowing. I feel so alive… Her heart pounded under her sweaty shirt as she splashed water on her face. Huge drops ran off her chin. She hobbled into a toilet stall.
When she reappeared in a baggy skirt and blouse, tiny pieces of toilet paper stuck to her face. Giggling, she freed her cheeks from the sticky bits. Then she noticed moistness under her armpits. She dug into her bag. “Nothing a few squirts can’t fix,” she muttered, shooting eau de cologne under each arm. She brushed her hair vigorously and touched up her makeup, ending the makeover session with bright red lipstick.
Then something made her sneeze. She inserted allergy drops into her nose. Wonder if I’m allergic to myself?
As Hélène was leaving the ladies’ room, she ran smack into her best friend and colleague, Cecile.
“You’re all red,” Cecile exclaimed as they kissed each other on the cheek. “And hot!” Her fingers went to her face. “Ca va? Are you all right?”
Hélèn
e flashed her pretty colleague a sweaty grin. “Guess what? I just biked all the way to work. Never felt more alive!”
“Quelle horreur,” Cecile exclaimed, inspecting her moist fingers. “Your exercise addiction better not be contagious.”
*****
Hélène yawned at her office computer and reached into her drawer. Mechanically, she opened her mouth to insert a chocolate-chip cookie. She stopped when its sweet, chocolaty scent invaded her nostrils. Extending the tip of her tongue, her taste buds caressed the cookie. Bits of dark Belgian chocolate melted in her mouth. As she savored their bitterness, conflict came: Non, non, non. You made a promise to Dr. Duprès. No more sweets! Before she could dissuade herself, she threw the saliva-covered cookie into the trash.
In fact, she chucked every single cookie—like mini pastry Frisbees—into the can. The dull, clunking noises against metal gave her momentum. When she had emptied all four packages from her drawer, she leaned back with glee. But her satisfaction was short-lived.
Just when she tried to salvage a cookie from the trash, her conscience took over. Before she knew it, she was erect in the can, pounding cookies with her boots. So this is how you make a cookie crumble! she mused, swiveling her hips and grinding her heels.
At that moment, Cecile walked by. The two colleagues were complete mismatches, yet solid confidantes. Unlike Hélène, Cecile went to extreme efforts to enhance her petite, feminine appearance. She wore sexy, tight-fitting clothes and highlighted her dark hair with soft reddish tints.
Cecile hurried into Hélène’s office, slammed the door, and observed her best friend dancing in a garbage can with a hysterical look on her face.
“Ca ne va pas du tout.” Cecile waved her scarf in the air. “I know you fainted the other day, but what in the heck did that doctor give you?”
