by Alix Nichols
At the reception desk, Corinne is talking animatedly with a young woman who’s hugging a pet I can’t yet see to her chest. As I come to stand next to her, my eyebrows rise. We haven’t had lizards before.
When I was a mobile vet in Bordeaux, people would sometimes call me for their exotic pets, but I’d explain I wasn’t the right doc for them, and that would be that. Now that I have a practice with a fixed address, it’s going to be harder to say no when people bring them in. And when they look as cute as this lizard.
“Mademoiselle, you need to take him to a clinic that specializes in exotic pets.” Corinne pulls a sheet of paper out of the printer’s mouth and gives it to the woman. “Here’s a list.”
Her voice is laced with impatience. I bet she’s said those same words to the young woman a couple of times already.
The cute lizard’s mom scans the list. “There aren’t any nearby. Can’t the doctor take a quick look?”
I clear my throat, and she turns toward me. “Oh, hello, Doctor!”
My natural impulse is to ask what’s wrong with her pet and see if I can help in any way. Even if there are no signs it’s an emergency. The code name for that impulse is “marshmallow trap” after my big sister’s nickname for me—Marshmallow Heart. Fortunately, over the years I’ve learned to curb that urge.
“I wish I could help you, Madame, but we are a general practice.” My tone is friendly but firm. “We aren’t qualified to treat exotic animals. I could harm your pet instead of helping him. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She glares at me and mumbles to her pet, “Let’s go, baby. They only want dogs and cats here. Anti-reptilian fascists!” With that, she storms out the door.
Corinne lifts her eyes to the ceiling.
I smile. As a practicing vet for nearly a decade, I’ve been slapped with a few choice epithets. But an anti-reptilian fascist is a first. I won’t forget it.
More people come in and sit in the waiting area with their fur babies in a carrier, on a leash, or peeking out of a purse. They can’t all have appointments, unless Corinne has messed up the schedule. Which never happens.
What happens is that people just turn up, hoping to be seen between two appointments. Some are here to buy dog food. The lady with the toy Pomeranian—Madame Petroff—drops by every morning just to give us a shout. She often brings along a dozen or so delish homemade cookies.
Corinne claims I’ve now largely surpassed Marc’s popularity in his heyday.
My flattered ego set aside, the good news is that my banker can relax at last. Better still, he can preen himself in front of his boss and add, “I told you the vet’s business plan was solid!”
All this should make me happy, right? It should. But it doesn’t.
Corinne sends Papatte and her owner into the exam room, bringing me out of my musings. I greet the pair and will my mind to focus on my work.
If a doctor is unable to control his moods and give his patients his 100 percent, he should find another occupation. Because in this one, the difference between 100 and 99 percent can determine if somebody lives or dies.
Speaking of which, putting incurably sick animals down is also part of my job. I hate that part. After all these years, it still affects my stupid marshmallow heart—the organ I’ve really tried, and miserably failed, to harden.
15
I finish late, after two back-to-back surgeries—one planned, the other an emergency—and go to La Bohème for dinner. The kitchen is still open. Fantastic! I’ll able to order a proper meal instead of a cold salad I braced myself for.
Lately, Jeanne and company have seen a lot of me on their turf.
I stop by in the morning for an espresso to go. Then I return after work for dinner, snubbing all the other restaurants and bistros in the neighborhood, including the famous Bouillon Chartier on my street. That place is old, beautiful, and as Parisian as it gets. It serves great food. But Dana never goes there.
Manon sends me to a vacant two-person table.
Next to it is a longer one. The company around that table includes Dana, Liviu, the three headband-wearing ladies from the gym, and a woman in her fifties I’ve never seen. Her hair is dyed jet-black. She wears tight, brightly colored clothing that hugs every single one of her curves and love handles, individually.
Dana and I say hello. I unfold the newspaper I bought this morning.
“Thomas!” Liviu jumps off his seat and comes to shake my hand.
“How are you doing, mon ami?” I ask him.
“Good!” He points to the vacant spot across from me. “Are you eating alone?”
“Yes.”
“Will you join us?”
“Um…” I glance at Dana who looks mildly panicked by Liviu’s sudden invitation. “Your table is already full.” I lift my paper. “I was going to—”
Liviu turns to Dana. “Mami, can Thomas sit with us? Please?”
Poor kid. Having grown up in a broken home myself with only women around me, I remember how appreciative I was of male company, how I enjoyed my uncle’s visits, and—especially—the vacations I spent with Dad.
“Who is this young man?” the flamboyant woman asks.
Her French has the same accent as Dana’s, only much more pronounced.
“He’s Baloo’s vet, Mami,” Dana says. “Dr. Thomas Brousse.”
“We make room for Dr. Thomas!” Dana’s mom pushes her chair toward her daughter’s.
The gym ladies make approving noises and shift theirs closer together.
Dana’s mom taps the cleared section of the table. “Come with your chair, Dr. Thomas.”
Taking in Dana’s flushed face, I begin to explain that I don’t want to cause any trouble.
Dana turns to her mom, her cheeks flaming. “See? He wants to eat his dinner in peace.”
“Doughnuts,” the older woman retorts.
I’m not sure why she said that, or what it means. Most likely, it’s a literal translation of some Romanian bon mot. That, or she believes I should order doughnuts.
While we’re having our back-and-forth, Manon picks up my tableware and transfers it to an empty spot, sealing my fate.
I sit next to Dana’s mom.
“Ioana Fieraru.” She holds her hand out.
“Thomas.” We shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Madame Fieraru.”
She waves me away. “Oh, please! Call me Ioana.”
“We’ve met at the gym.” The leader of the headband gang gives me a toothy smile. “I’m Alcinda, from Portugal. I’ve been a concierge in Paris for more than twenty years now.”
Her two sidekicks introduce themselves, and soon I’m drawn into an animated comparative analysis of current job markets in France, Portugal, and Romania. My role consists of listening, nodding, and eating while the ladies talk. From time to time, I sneak a glance at Dana, who’s even quieter than usual.
Ioana is the opposite of quiet.
The contrast between mother and daughter is too striking not to dwell upon. While Ioana is exuberant in both character and appearance, Dana is demure, delicate, and subtle. It boggles the mind how the genes that produced the mother’s fluorescent pop art managed to create the soft-hued watercolor that is her daughter.
Then again, maybe Dana wasn’t born quiet. Maybe she became quiet to compensate for her mother’s extravagance.
Alcinda breaks me from playing shrink by announcing that she and her friends won’t be having dessert. They must leave now. It’s their bridge night.
When they’re gone, Liviu turns to me, his expression solemn. “I need your opinion as an experienced older man.”
I snort at the goofy qualifier. “Shoot.”
“Baby?” Dana frowns, clearly surprised by Liviu’s request. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, Mami.” He gives her a placating look before adding, “And, please, stop calling me ‘baby.’ You promised, remember?”
She screws up her face. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK.”
Liviu turns to me. “So. Here’s my problem. There’s this girl at school. She wants to be my girlfriend.”
I whistle. “Way to go, man!”
Liviu knits his brows as if to say, Hey, this is a serious matter.
“Do you want to be her boyfriend?” I ask.
He squirms. “That’s the thing… I don’t know.”
OK. I can see why he needed the opinion of an “experienced older man.” I remember that confusing, transitional age very well. You’re no longer a LEGO-worshipping kid but you haven’t yet morphed into a grumpy teenager. You don’t have the codes. You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to do with a girlfriend, and how a girlfriend would be different from a friend who’s a girl.
I put my knife and fork down. “You’re wondering if you’ll be expected to kiss her.”
Liviu bunches his eyebrows into a straight line and squints at me, the expression a carbon copy of Dana’s. “Yeah…”
“Do you like her?”
He shrugs. “She’s fun.”
“Do you like her in a way that makes you want to kiss her?”
“You mean, am I attracted to her?”
“Yes.”
Dana leans forward, hanging on to Liviu’s every word.
“I…” He scratches his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you have your answer.”
Liviu sits back. “Is it rude to say no? Wouldn’t she be upset?”
“You can say it kindly and respectfully. And definitely not in front of other people.”
Liviu is silent for a long moment, processing. “How about I tell her I’ll never get married, anyway?”
“Is that true?”
He nods.
“Why won’t you get married?”
He hesitates before blurting on a sigh. “Because there’s no way I’m letting a girl see me naked.”
“She doesn’t have to, strictly speaking.”
“No?” His body slumps slightly in his chair. “But isn’t that a requirement for… you know… copulation.”
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Dana and Ioana exchanging a look. Dana’s eyes are laughing. Ioana pinches her mouth.
“You can do it with your eyes shut,” I offer.
“Hmm…” He considers my suggestion. “But then I won’t be able to see her.”
“That’s not fair,” Dana interjects. “If you want to see her, she should be able to see you, too.”
Liviu lifts his chin. “Never.”
“May I say something?” Ioana raises her hand and continues without waiting for Liviu’s permission “That decision can wait. You have years to mull it over.”
Dana and I back Ioana’s comment, and Liviu moves on to another topic.
We leave the bistro at the same time.
“Can we talk in private?” I whisper to Dana, surprising myself.
Even more surprisingly, she turns to Ioana and Liviu. “Thomas and I need to talk about some boring stuff. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
Ioana thrusts her bright pink umbrella into Dana’s hand and tugs on Liviu’s sleeve. “Walk faster. I hate getting wet.”
Wishing Ioana and Liviu a good-night, I steer Dana in the opposite direction.
As we turn onto rue Lafayette, she passes me the umbrella. “You’re taller.”
I hold it over her.
She moves closer. “It’s for both of us.”
We walk in silence for a while. Truth is, I have no idea how to convey to Dana the tangled feelings even I can’t make sense of.
I miss her. I want her so much I’ve lost sleep. But there’s Armelle. She’s alive. She was taken away from me, coerced or blackmailed into staying with her kidnapper. She must be feeling so helpless, desperate… I can’t abandon her. And I still love her, even if I think about Dana all the time.
Overwhelmed, I choose the coward’s way. “I think we should acknowledge we’re more than just neighbors to each other, whether we want it or not.”
Dana smiles.
Taking heart, I continue, “I think we should officially agree to be friends.”
“I’m afraid we have no choice,” she says.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I hide my relief behind an exaggerated aplomb. “My buddies in Bordeaux would vouch I’m a great friend. You can ask them when you meet them.”
“Liviu really likes you,” she says. “The question he asked you earlier—it shows he trusts you and values your opinion.”
“Please tell him he can ask me any question anytime. And he can come to me when he needs help.”
“Thank you, I will…” She hesitates.
“But?” I tilt my head to look into her eyes. “I’m sensing doubt.”
“It’s not you, it’s just… I’ve had three more or less serious boyfriends since he turned seven. Liviu was never one of those possessive, jealous kids. He wanted my relationships to work, wanted a father figure.”
She falls silent, her gaze trained on her boots.
I can see what’s bugging her, and I’d love to be able to reassure her on that account. Except, I’m not in such a position.
She looks up at me. “We should just be careful not to give him the wrong idea, all right? I don’t want him to have to deal with another disappointment down the road.”
“We’ll make sure he understands we’re just friends.”
She nods.
I take a fortifying breath. “May I ask something? Feel free to use the worst Romanian abuse, if you don’t like the question.”
“What a preamble!” She chuckles softly. “All right then, ask.”
“Is Liviu’s dad really deceased? Or is it a white lie?”
“He died in front of my eyes.” Dana trains her gaze on mine. “It was an accident. A stupid accident.”
I don’t ask any more questions. She’ll tell me more if she wants to.
“Marius fell off an eighth-floor balcony, climbing from his to mine,” Dana says. “I was pregnant. He was young and reckless. We both were.”
Jesus.
She stops in her tracks. “We should head back.”
We make a U-turn.
“Sometimes,” Dana says when we reach rue Cadet, “I feel so much anger at him for abandoning Liviu and me, even involuntarily.”
“It’s understandable.”
“But not forgivable.” Her eyes gleam with emotion. “My kind, gentle Marius was the only one who ever loved me. And the only one I’ll ever love.”
16
October is ending.
An umbrella in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other, I’m skirting puddles on my way to Dana’s loge. On Friday, Liviu texted me an invite for a Sunday breakfast of Romanian-style crepes cooked by his gran. Ioana has settled in Paris for now, working as a live-in nanny. But every Sunday she’s at the loge to cook a Romanian meal for her daughter and grandson.
Since our chance meeting at La Bohème, Dana and I have been nurturing our friendship. She jogs with me most mornings. We’ve taken Liviu to the Musée Grévin to see wax models and to the Musée d’Orsay to see impressionist paintings. We’ve had drinks at La Bohème.
Overall, we’re doing a surprisingly good job of being friends, considering how much lust I keep a lid on.
Holding that lid down would’ve been easier if I didn’t want to be her friend. I’d change my daily routines to see her less often, and then the lust would fade away.
But here’s the thing… I want our friendship to be full-on, unrestrained. I like the woman, dammit. Spending time with her is like going on a treasure hunt to unearth caches of sharp wit and humor under her layers of quiet. The more I get to know her, the more I enjoy discovering those hidden gems. And the more I like her.
Funny how our relationship has zigzagged since I first saw her at the clinic in early September. She was just a client then. But when Baloo freaked out and tore open her shirt, I was transformed into a man obsessed. I became fixated on a pair of superb female breasts. I dreamed about them duri
ng the day, and I dreamed about them through the night… They’re that perfect.
At the time, I believed Dana was with Manon. Blissful days! Knowing she was completely out of bounds, I could fantasize at will, knowing things would never get out of hand. I discovered her boy Liviu, who’s so much fun to be around! We became great neighbors.
Dana’s supposed homosexuality neatly eliminated the chance of gaining intimate access to her. I didn’t want that chance. To take it would mean to betray Armelle. It would mean making peace with her fate, with her not coming back, with the fact I’m unable to extract my fiancée from a predator’s claws. Unlike the love of Dana’s life who died tragically, mine is alive. She’s out there somewhere, suffering. And no matter how often I bug the cops or how many PIs I hire to track her down, I’m powerless to help her.
Then Dana’s ex Nico showed up. She panicked at first, but man, did she handle him well! Like a pro. I was burning to intervene, secretly hoping to provoke him into a fight and teach him a lesson… But in hindsight, Dana was right. The way she dealt with the situation was kinder, more honest, and ultimately, more effective.
And then… then we made love.
Now that I’ve touched her, tasted her, entered her, suppressing my lust has become harder. Not just a little harder. We’re talking a whole new level, FORMULA ONE level of hard here. I can only hope I’m strong enough to keep that lid down until Armelle finds a way to reach out again, and I find a way to bring her back.
Just as I’m about to press the intercom button, my phone beeps. It’s a text from Dana.
FYI, my mom’s crepes are DIVINE. Always. Do you copy?
I tap a reply.
Loud and clear.
Ioana opens the door, dressed in red flower-print leggings and a form-hugging sweater with purple stripes. She takes my umbrella. Now that I’m used to her style, I’m able to forget my mom’s lectures on French elegance and appreciate the perfect accord between Ioana’s personality and clothing.
Baloo gives my leg an enthusiastic lick. I pet him, and he wags his tail. Outside of the clinic, he doesn’t resent me at all, quite the contrary. And this is his way of saying, “Dude, it’s not you, it’s your needles.”
