An Autumn in Paris

by Alix Nichols

  “Of course,” I say, bracing myself for more panicking on Baloo’s part.

  “How old is he?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  Baloo clings to me, scrabbling and whining as I try to set him down.

  “Do you know the breed?” Dr. Brousse asks, studying Baloo.

  I try to peel his paws off me. “Likely a Terrier cross. He’s a rescue dog.”

  Losing my patience with the uncooperative Baloo, I force him onto the table without realizing that one of his paws is in my shirt. The fabric tears, buttons fly off, and the next instant I’m staring at my breasts on full display, nipples prodding my unpadded, wire-free bra. I lift my eyes in horror and catch him staring at my boobs.

  He averts his gaze immediately.

  I cover my chest with my left hand, the right one gripping Baloo so he wouldn’t fall off the high table.

  The vet takes hold of the dog. “I have him.”

  Letting go, I yank the lapels of my shirt over my breasts and hold them together, hoping my face isn’t too red. Except, I know it is. My cheeks and ears feel hot enough to spontaneously combust at any moment.

  Dr. Brousse clears his throat, his gaze latched on to Baloo. “He’s had his annual vaccinations and microchipping done by Dr. Vannier, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He weighs the pooch, and I recover enough to tell him about the gland infection and the surgery. The doc palpates the area, then examines the rest of him.

  “All good. Baloo is doing great.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it!”

  He administers flea drops and asks a few more questions. All without looking at me. When we’re done, he pets Baloo, wishes me a good day, and walks over to the sink to scrub up.

  I grab Baloo and dart out the door into the reception area. My back to Corinne, I set the dog down on the floor. Quickly, I scramble into on my raincoat and button it up. Only then do I turn around to pay for the visit. The good news is, Dr. Brousse does charge less than Dr. Vannier.

  When Baloo and I leave the vet’s office, the drizzle has graduated to a proper autumn rain, bubbles and all. Good thing home is only five minutes away!

  As we run, I promise myself I’ll erase the mortifying episode from my memory so I don’t have to look for a new vet just to spare myself the embarrassment at the next visit. For which I’ll wear my sturdiest turtleneck.

  The funny part?

  Through my embarrassment and unease, I can’t deny that a part of me—the playful part that was supposed to be long dead—has shown signs of life.

  It stirred, stretched out, and is now soaking up the smells and sounds of the city.

  But above all, it’s basking in the memory of Dr. Brousse’s hungry gaze.

  3

  While I pack Liviu’s backpack, he shoves Baloo’s favorite toy and blanket into a plastic bag.

  The two of them are going to spend the weekend with Liviu’s bestie, Gilles, whose family moved to suburbia last year. The move, plus his parents’ well-paying jobs in the tech sector, allowed the family to buy a house with a garden.

  Gilles is getting a dog of his own soon, which explains why Baloo was also invited to be a part of the sleepover. Liviu is going to show him how to take care of his four-legged buddy and how to train him. That being said, Baloo isn’t a particularly well-trained dog. But we’re working on it.

  I peek at Liviu. What a joy to see him so excited!

  Thanks to video games and apps, he and Gilles spend a lot of time together in the virtual world. But that can’t replace the daily “hanging out” those two used to do here at the loge or at Gilles’s place after school.

  Since Gilles left Paris, Liviu has been a little lost. He has other friends and some are great kids. But my boy tends to grow very attached to people, and he misses them atrociously when they leave. Even if it’s just to settle down on the other side of the Boulevard Périphérique.

  Small wonder, given his past.

  He’s now as tall as I am, and he’s shed most of his remaining baby fat. His cheeks are still a bit rounded but the rest of him is all pointy elbows and knees.

  I turn away and stare at the backpack, waiting for the force squeezing my chest to let up. When it does, I ask Liviu which pajamas he wants me to pack even if I already know the answer.

  “Mami.” He cocks his head and gives me a crinkled-up look, which translates as Really?

  I grin and point to his feet. “I need your slippers.”

  He steps out of them, and I pick them up.

  “The pair you bought,” Liviu says to rule out any misunderstanding. “Not the pair Bunica gave me for Christmas.”

  Last Christmas, my mother gave him a pair of Mickey and Minnie Mouse pajamas. Yessir, she did. Because she found them “super cute and adorable”.

  Surprise, surprise—my twelve-year-old didn’t feel the same way. But he did his best to smile and thank her politely as did I. On the flip side, they fit, which is rarely the case with the presents my mom gets for her grandson. Or for me. Or for anyone, really.

  “Promise you’ll save some pancakes for when I get back tomorrow night?” Liviu asks.

  I press his slippers to my chest. “Cross my heart.” Then I stick them in his backpack.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Manon loves clatite, especially the ones with jam. And the ones with Nutella, too. You’ll need to stash my share away.”

  While Liviu is with Gilles this weekend, I’m going to host my own pajama party here in the loge. There’s a private bash at La Bohème tonight, and my BFF Manon will be working late. When the patrons leave, she’ll lock up and hop over here instead of taking a night bus back to her place.

  This morning, when I told Liviu about Manon’s sleepover and the clatite idea for breakfast, I neglected to mention the other thing we plan to do. She’s bringing a bottle of special wine, which we intend to open and finish before we crash.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” I say. “I’ll put your share of pancakes into a plastic tub. Then I’ll hide the tub in your schoolbag, hide the schoolbag in my suitcase, lock it, and throw away the key.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mami.”

  “OK, I’ll keep the key.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile and a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you sigh.

  When I’m done with Liviu’s backpack, I check the contents of Baloo’s bag, and throw in an old rag in case he makes a mess indoors.

  A little before five, Gilles’ mom arrives to collect Liviu and Baloo.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening doing chores. Around ten, I grab a sandwich—yay, no dinner to cook tonight!—get into my pj’s, and read while I wait for Manon.

  Three hours later, she knocks on the door.

  She thrusts the wine and a platter of delicious-looking cheese and sausages into my hands and walks straight to my “bedroom.” The back room of the loge being Liviu’s quarters, my space is a double bed in the corner of the front room, separated from the rest of the loge by a screen.

  While Manon changes out of her uniform into pajamas, I dash to the kitchenette and return with a big tray, napkins, a corkscrew, and two glasses.

  We’re all set.

  “Before I forget.” Manon opens the wine with the easy competence of a career waiter. “Amanda and Kes are looking for a live-in nanny for their kids.”

  “I can’t, louloutte,” I begin, “Liviu—”

  “It’s not you I had in mind, louloutte.”

  I really can’t remember how and when we started calling each other by this term of endearment. Neither does Manon. But our longtime friendship and singlehood have no doubt played a part. The address sounds perfectly silly, and we’re perfectly OK with that.

  “I was thinking of your mom,” Manon says.

  “Oh.”

  “She speaks French, yes?”

  I nod. My mother isn’t a cultured person. She’s the opposite of that, truth be told. But she has a knack for languages. And what with vis
iting Liviu and me in Paris every year, and staying for weeks at a time, she’s picked up decent French.

  “Do you think she’d be interested?” Manon asks. “Has she done any nannying before?”

  “Tons. She might look like she’s headed to Rio for Carnival, but she’s very responsible around children.”

  “I know,” Manon says. “I’ve seen her with Liviu since he was seven or eight.”

  Her words make me realize how far back we go. Five years. Wow.

  “I’ll ask her.” I raise my glass. “To our friendship.”

  “Chin-chin.”

  We drink. She tells me more about tonight’s event at La Bohème. Then we talk about this and that, including our friend Elorie’s latest scheme to snag a rich guy.

  “I think she’s trying too hard,” Manon says, munching on a slice of chorizo. “She’d have a better chance of catching one if she stopped chasing them.”

  “Like you,” I say. “You don’t chase rich men. You don’t flirt with rich patrons at La Bohème. You do absolutely nothing to attract a wealthy guy.”

  “Never,” she says smugly.

  I refill our glasses before adding matter-of-factly, “You never attract any, either.”

  “Hmm. Good point.” She furrows her brow. “Could that have something to do with me not giving a fuck?”

  4

  Halfway through the bottle, our confab takes a more serious turn. I tell Manon about Nico and his peace offering the other day. She overreacts by making me swear I’ll stay away from him.

  “A leopard can’t change its spots, Dana.” She searches my face. “The a-hole beat you, and he was mean to Liviu.”

  “He never raised a hand to Liviu.”

  “Even so. Didn’t he want you to send the boy away to Romania for your mom to raise?”

  I nod. “When I refused, he said, ‘If you want to keep a man, you better learn to put him first.’ ”

  “Jerk.” She reaches for the cheese. “What did you say to that?”

  “I said, ‘If you want to keep me, you better learn that my son will always come first.’ ”

  She hoots. “Roasted!”

  “Did you learn that from Liviu?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’m done with Nico. I’ll never take him back.”

  “And that guy you dated last year, Kevin…” She tut-tuts. “Don’t take him back, either. He was no good.”

  I hang my head. What can I say? She’s right.

  “The worst cheapskate I’d ever met.” Manon pulls a face. “I still don’t understand why you gave that penny-pinching miser a chance.”

  Nor do I, to be honest. I’ll need years to get over the residual mortification from having been with a man like that.

  Gah!

  We dated in winter. He often arrived a half hour early, so he waited for me at La Bohème—nice and warm, and protected from the elements. But he never ordered anything, not even the cheapest espresso at the counter.

  When I said he should, Kevin’s response was, “You’re friends with the head waiter and the owner. I’m your boyfriend. So.” And then he gave me a don’t-be-daft shrug.

  Every time I told him something about Liviu, he always maneuvered the conversation toward himself. I humored him. But when he started giving me unwarranted advice on how I should raise my son, I dumped him.

  Picking up the bottle, I pour Manon and myself some more wine. “Geez, I did put up with a lot of shit, didn’t I?”

  “You let bad, toxic men into your life, and you took way too long to give them the boot.” She pauses and stares at me, her hand with a slice of cheese halfway to her mouth. “It’s self-sabotage, louloutte.”

  “Thing is…” I hesitate before sharing something I doubt Manon could relate to.

  “What? Spit it out.”

  “You’ve been lucky,” I say by way of a preamble. “You only had one man, and he was really sweet to you.”

  “Yeah—until he dumped me without as much as a call or a text.”

  “It was so unlike him… Maybe he had a good reason for leaving like that.”

  She glares at me. “No goodbye, no sorry, not a word. I had to swallow my dignity and ask his parents. I was imagining the worst. And then they tell me Amar moved abroad for a job.”

  Manon’s nostrils flare and she turns away. It’s been almost three years by now, but she’s still hurting and her wound still fresh.

  She faces me again. “We’re talking about you now, louloutte, so don’t change the topic. What’s your excuse for putting up with a man like Nico for almost a year?”

  “You see,” I begin, “men are made differently than us. They’re larger, physically stronger. If their wife or girlfriend rubs them the wrong way… let’s just say, they must exercise exceptional self-control.”

  She knits her eyebrow. “What do you mean, exceptional?”

  I say nothing. Frankly, I don’t know how to explain this.

  “Don’t tell me you think it’s normal for a man to want to hit a woman.” Her eyes bug out in shock. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t think it’s normal, but I think it’s easy.”

  “Explain.”

  “Sometimes, they get mad or jealous, or frustrated—”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Manon crosses her arms over her chest and leans back.

  “The women around them are smaller and weaker… unless they’re Lady Brienne of Tarth,” I plow on.

  “So? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the risk the abuser is taking is minimal, right? Not like when he fights someone his own size, weight and strength.”

  She slits her eyes. “Are you justifying domestic violence?”

  “Absolutely not! I’m just trying to figure it out, to understand why a regular guy would do something so low, so beastly.”

  She surveys me. “You’re thinking of Nico.”

  “Yeah. When we started dating, he liked to cast himself as my protector, the man I could depend on… But all it took was some booze and et voila, the protector turned into the aggressor.”

  “What’s your solution, then?”

  “I don’t have one for womankind, but personally, I’ll try to stay away from men going forward. It’s best not to fraternize with the enemy.”

  “The enemy!” She cocks her head. “May I remind you that you’re raising one?”

  “Liviu is different, as was Marius.”

  She waves me off. “I have a better idea.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We line the guys who wronged us along that wall.” She points to the opposite wall. “Actually, we chain them to it, so they can’t get away. And we throw poop bombs at them.”

  As soon as my mind has processed her idea, I burst out laughing.

  “Poop bombs are serious business,” she says, frowning. “In Venezuela, political protesters use them. They call them “Poopootov cocktails.”

  “I remember reading something about it.”

  “And don’t underestimate the damage they can do.” Her mouth quirks. “I don’t know about you, but I’ll aim for the faces.”

  I toss a piece of cheese into my mouth, feeling a lot lighter. And a lot younger.

  “How do we procure poop bombs?” I ask.

  “It’s a fantasy, louloutte.” She arches an eyebrow. “We can just cut straight to the part where we already have them.”

  “I like my fantasies realistic, louloutte.”

  “All right, all right.” She lets out a theatrical sigh. “Then we order them online. Or we just walk up and down the street, scoop up all the dog poop people don’t pick up after dark, and then we form—”

  “We order online,” I cut in.

  “Yeah, that’s probably a better idea.” Amusement lights her eyes. “We’ll find a manufacturer that ships them neatly packaged so they don’t even stink until you fire them.”

  “Works for me.”

  For a moment, Manon and I pi
cture Amar, Nico, and Kevin chained to the wall, helpless and wincing as they await their just deserts.

  “We let Marius off the hook, of course,” Manon says. “He didn’t leave you and Liviu of his own volition.”

  She’s usually a lot more tactful than that, but she’s also usually a lot less drunk.

  “No,” I say. “He didn’t.”

  “Right.” Manon gives me a businesslike nod. “So, it’s the Magnificent Three.”

  “Yep.”

  She sits on her heels, grabs an imaginary poop bomb and takes aim. “No mercy.”

  I ape her stance. “None whatsoever.”

  “Fire at will.”

  I pretend to pick up a poop bomb, but I can’t make myself chuck it. “Ugh!”

  “What?”

  Bowing my head in shame, I turn to Manon. “Sorry, louloutte. I can’t do it. I’m that lame, weak person who can’t throw poop, even when it’s imaginary, at another imaginary person.”

  To my relief, she doesn’t get mad.

  She pats my shoulder. “How about big, ripe tomatoes?”

  “That’s brilliant!” I sling one without any difficulty. “Take that, Nico!”

  “Bam! Splash!” Manon’s eyes are bright. “Nice shot!”

  I bow. “Thank you. Your turn.”

  For the next few minutes we hurl our make-believe tomatoes at the Magnificent Three. Manon supplies the sound effects and the commentary. It’s hilarious, partly due to the wine making her slur her words. I giggle and hold my sides.

  When we’ve exhausted ourselves, we clear off the bed and climb under the covers.

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if we were bi-shekshual?” Manon says.

  “Oh yes.”

  She curls her fingers like claws. “Gah! Why am I into dark-haired, dark-eyed men with a subtle, dry sense of humor?”

  “Like Amar.”

  “Yeah, like Amar.” She studies my face. “And like you! You fit that bill to a T. You’d be so my type if you weren’t a chick.”

  “Damn.”

  She purses her lips with frustration.

  “If I were into women, I’d totally crush on you,” I say.

  “I lost a lot of weight, didn’t I? A few more kilos, and I’ll be an S.”