Paris Dreaming

by Anita Heiss

  His broad white smile matched hers and together they lit up the room.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he said, laughing and doing the double French air-kiss thing.

  Canelle had already warned me that Pierre didn’t speak much English, but he was interested in Aboriginal Australia and was pleased to cook for us. I could smell the meal already, spices lingering in the air of her flat, which by Parisian standards was quite large, with a string of fairy lights running along the hall and around the doorframes.

  ‘Pierre has prepared a French Caribbean curry for us. Lamb with vegetables and Colombo curry powder from Guadeloupe,’ Canelle said, proud of her man’s cooking accomplishments while my stomach rumbled at the thought and my mouth was already watering.

  ‘It is not traditional French Christmas fare, but we wanted to give you something authentically ours.’

  ‘It smells delicious,’ Jake said as he unpacked some Australian beers – Coopers, Hahn and Foster’s – onto the table. ‘And we wanted to give you something authentically ours.’

  Pierre laughed. Clearly both men thought the beer a hysterical gesture.

  ‘This is punch d’amour,’ Canelle said, handing me a small glass. ‘It is love potion punch from the French West Indies – Guadeloupe, in fact. It has ginseng and other secret spices.’

  As I sipped the cocktail made of white rum, fruit and cane sugar, I smiled at Jake and then watched my friend and her man organise our meal in the small kitchen.

  There were art-deco type Coca-Cola signs above the stove, and I saw a different side to Canelle. My bling-covered, elegant Canelle loved soft-drink paraphernalia, who would’ve known? She caught me looking at the signs.

  ‘I collect them. I like the suggestive way she sits and says, “Are you ready?”’ Canelle and Pierre looked at each other lovingly and laughed.

  We all sat in Canelle’s lounge with the television on in the background, eating the meals off plates in our laps. I studied the room. I loved what she had done with her plants to give the place the feeling of an oasis under the windows facing the street. I needed some more greenery in my apartment, I thought.

  I saw the Aboriginal flag I’d given her in a pot near her fireplace. I wanted to acknowledge that it looked perfect there but didn’t say anything because I was too busy enjoying the most amazing flavours of coriander, turmeric, cumin, mustard, cloves, pepper and fennel seeds. I thought about trying to make a Colombo kangaroo curry for Lauren, Caro and Denise when I finally got back to Canberra. Hopefully Jake would be there too.

  ‘What is Christmas like in Australia?’ Pierre asked us enthusiastically.

  ‘Hot and dry in Canberra,’ I said, remembering the last heat-wave Christmas I’d had with Denise and Caro because I didn’t go home.

  ‘We have barbecues and seafood platters and legs of ham and cold beer,’ Jake added, as if he’d said the same line a million times since he’d arrived in Paris.

  I was less excited about the food aspect than Jake was. ‘Mainly family and friends get together, but I’m not really big on it anymore. A lot of expense and trouble preparing food for one day. And I can’t cook so it’s even more trouble for me.’ I cleared what was left on my plate.

  ‘What are you doing this Christmas?’ Pierre asked.

  ‘We’re spending it together,’ Jake said, claiming the day as his, as ours.

  In the kitchen Canelle and I washed the dishes.

  ‘I like to see your eyes sparkling, Elizabeth. This Jake man is good for you.’

  Jake and I spent Christmas Eve doing a tour of the city, gasping in awe at how beautiful it looked lit up. Braddon was another universe away from the Champs-Elysées, which had been turned into a wonderland of frosty blue lights like snowflakes draped over the bare branches of trees lining the street.

  Notre Dame had one of the largest trees in the city with white lights and red baubles. A choir sang carols in French and I swooned when Jake joined it. I didn’t know that he could also sing.

  ‘You have perfect pitch,’ I said with amazement and awe.

  ‘Trained as a baritone in the school choir.’ He puffed his chest out with pride.

  ‘My baritone Blackfella, is le sexy.’ I pulled him in for a kiss.

  Before heading home, we dropped into the Ministry for Culture and Communication where there was an exhibition of Christmas trees by top designers like Jean-Paul Gaultier, Gucci, Christian Dior, Versace and Chanel. The trees had already been auctioned to raise money for children with HIV and AIDS.

  ‘Wait!’ Jake said as I went to enter my apartment, freezing from walking the streets and desperate for a hot shower.

  ‘Here.’ He pinned some mistletoe on the arch of the doorway.

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  I pulled him to me and we kissed under the traditional sprig. I didn’t care if I was never kissed by another man ever again.

  When I stepped out of the shower into my now crowded apartment, I found Jake putting candles on my windowsill and trying to dress up my less than healthy plant.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I giggled, unsure of what he was attempting.

  ‘It’s traditional to have candles and a sapin de Noël aka Christmas tree. Following the French way, we should decorate it with apples, paper flowers and ribbons, but this is the best I can do.’

  He continued to tie little pieces of red ribbon on the fragile twigs. ‘Anyway, one apple would snap this poor, neglected plant in half.’

  ‘Where did you get the ribbon?’ I started to help.

  ‘I picked it up at the markets, you like?’

  ‘I love it.’ I almost wanted to say that I loved him, but I didn’t. Rather, I continued to smile at his considerateness for making our Christmas like a real Christmas.

  ‘There’s not much room for anything else.’ We scanned the tiny space.

  I looked adoringly at the extraordinary man in front of me. A Blackfella full of traditions and who could sing Christmas carols in French. How lucky was I?

  ‘I like seeing you smile,’ he said, pulling me to him.

  ‘I like seeing you smile.’ I looked into his eyes.

  ‘You make me smile.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  I kissed him gently.

  We spent the evening preparing some of our menu for Christmas day and listening to Bob Dylan – something else that Jake and I had in common.

  ‘I’m going to make something very traditional for dessert,’ Jake informed me, as he looked at the ingredients.

  ‘Oh yes. You look convincing.’

  ‘A bûche de Noël,’ he said with flair, before breaking into a broad Aussie bush accent. ‘It is a yule log, my love.’

  I flinched at the term ‘love’ and chose to ignore it. ‘What the hell is a yule log?’

  ‘It is a log-shaped cake made of chocolate and chestnuts, and it’s meant to be representative of the special wood log burned from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day in the Périgord province of France. The ceremony is a holdover from a pagan Gaul celebration,’ he said in one warm, knowing breath.

  ‘Stop. You had me at chocolate and chestnuts.’

  On Christmas morning, I woke to feather-like kisses on my face and Jake desperate to give me his gift: a vintage Chanel rhinestone and pearl flower brooch. It was the most exquisite piece of jewellery I had ever seen and all I wanted to do was show the girls back home. I now had my final ‘accessory’.

  ‘It is stunning,’ I said, pinning it to my cami.

  ‘It is befitting my Gamilaroi Princess, I think.’ Jake kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘I have something for you too.’ I climbed over him and reached into my bag near the bed. ‘I hope you like it – them.’

  He ripped the paper off like a five-year-old. I was feeling anxious, praying that he would appreciate his gift as much as I did mine.

  ‘I know this blue box. What did you do?’

  He gave me a cheeky smile as he untied the signature white ribbon.

  ‘If you don’t like them, you ca
n change them, I don’t mind.’

  Of course I would mind, I walked the length and breadth of the city to find cufflinks with red on them somewhere. It turned out they were waiting for me in Tiffany’s; Paloma Picasso had made a set in sterling silver with red enamel.

  I couldn’t believe the size of the smile on Jake’s face and I knew he loved his gift immediately.

  ‘Red is my favourite colour, they’ll look great with my tie.’

  ‘I know, I know, that’s what I thought. And they match my bag and shoes.’ I was excited that Jake was excited.

  ‘We’ll be the flashest Blacks in town,’ he said, looking at the box and then at me. ‘Not hard when we’re the only ones.’

  We both had gifts from home to open. Mum and the boys sent me a small photo album with pics of everyone and some shots from around town. It was the best gift.

  Lauren sent me a thin white belt for my growing wardrobe. ‘Be daring’, she wrote on the card. Denise gave me a collection of Australian women’s magazines for December so I could keep up with who was doing what with whom. And Caro sent me a silver cork stopper in case I ever left anything in the bottle once opened.

  Dom and Catherine popped in briefly before going to visit their son and grandchildren. Catherine gave me some beautiful red woollen material and said she had spoken to Sorina who was going to make me a skirt. I cried and hugged her.

  Dom gave me a lavender plant. ‘This one should survive, Libby, it is sturdy and can stay indoors.’

  We all laughed when we looked at his and what was left of my original one.

  ‘And for you …’ I handed them a collection of books and CDs and a DVD of the musical Bran Nue Dae. ‘All these should keep you entertained for a while. I think your son will like the film too. And here’s a little something for Romeo.’

  I’d had Sorina make a little red, black and yellow dog collar for the cheeky poodle, and matching collars for Bonnie and Clyde back home.

  After Dom and Catherine left, Jake and I spent the day inside, entertaining ourselves as snow swept across the city. The blizzard outside mirrored the storm of happiness inside as we danced around the apartment in our underwear and jewellery listening to CDs sent from home, eating our divine menu of foie gras, stuffed turkey and our yule log. We even amazed ourselves with our ability to cook an above-average Christmas lunch.

  I woke up on New Year’s Day with memories of Jake and I making love in the fifth floor conference room the night before. Along with other staff, we enjoyed the stunning view from the embassy overlooking the Eiffel Tower. There was a huge crowd present, lots of laughter, dancing, food and champers.

  I couldn’t believe that we not only didn’t get caught, but we’d managed to ignore the fact that ministers met around that table we made love on, and that staff meetings were held in that room. How would we ever sit through another briefing again?

  I was glad to be back in my apartment to deal with the hangover from lack of sleep and to do something about the state of my own home. It looked like a bomb had hit and I had a long list of domestic duties to attend to and some shopping to do. I’d managed to run low on all the basics: detergent, soap, loo paper, juice.

  I smiled when my phone rang, knowing it would be Jake.

  ‘Have you seen Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis?’ he asked.

  I tried to translate quickly. ‘Welcome to the Sticks? Is it a movie about Deni?’

  ‘You’re hilarious, but no. It translates to Welcome to the North of France. It’s a contemporary classic.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen any movie about the northern sticks of France.’ I laughed at my own attempted humour.

  ‘Then, put on your little Moulin Rouge outfit,’ Jake said in a cheeky voice, ‘and I’ll bring over the movie and a bottle and we’ll have a night in.’

  He arrived at about seven and we were both still in a state of recovery from the previous night’s party. We ate and drank very little before settling on the bed to watch the movie.

  ‘The people in the north don’t have the sun, but they have the sun in their heart,’ Jake mused.

  ‘I like that.’ I cuddled in closer to him.

  ‘And you’re the sun in my heart,’ he said, as the movie finished and his moves began.

  As I watched Jake from my window the next morning, I was privately glad he was going away to Prague for a few days to join the Prime Minister’s tour, just so I could catch up on emails and Skype the girls. I still hadn’t shown them my Chanel brooch. I felt secure with Jake, though I missed him the minute he turned the corner at the end of the street.

  I worked ten-hour days while he was gone because I was filled with inspiration and adrenalin. I tried not to pine for him but I surprised myself with how much I felt the loss. I saw him everywhere I looked and could still smell him in my flat. He was in every waking and most of my sleeping thoughts.

  By day three, I couldn’t wait for him to get back to Paris. Prague seemed a hemisphere away. I really needed my man nearby, in the same city, preferably the same building and more so the same bed.

  On the night Jake was due back in Paris, I stayed awake as long as possible, desperate just to hear his voice and know he was safe. I’d never craved another person like I craved him. I knew I’d only be at peace fully when he was back in my arms.

  By 9 pm my eyes were heavy and I crashed on top of the covers, fully clothed. The phone rang at 11 pm and woke me, startled, but I knew it could only be him and smiled before I even answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ Jake said down the line. ‘I’m downstairs, I need to see you.’

  ‘I missed you!’ I buzzed him in and raced to the bathroom to squeeze toothpaste into my mouth quickly. I wanted a long pash as soon as he got in the door.

  ‘I missed you,’ I repeated, wrapping myself around him as soon as I opened the door, planting a kiss on his now sexier-than-ever thin lips.

  I wanted to tell him I loved him but he kissed me again gently before I had the chance.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said softly.

  ‘You must be tired, we can talk tomorrow.’ I kissed his neck and started to peel off his jacket. ‘I missed you so much.’

  ‘I missed you too, but we need to talk tonight.’

  He was serious and I started to panic. It was never a good thing when a woman said those words, but when a man did, it was always going to be bad.

  ‘Suzanne is coming to Paris.’

  There was silence. I stepped back confused.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Suzanne, my ex.’ He looked as confused as I did. ‘She called me when I was in Prague and said she’s coming to Paris.’

  ‘What for? Why? And who cares? She’s with the friggen frigger, isn’t she? She left you. You’re with me now.’

  I moved towards him to claim the man I had missed the past few days. The man that maybe I had fallen in love with and who made me happy.

  ‘She wants to make a go of it,’ he blurted out.

  ‘What do you mean she wants to make a go of it? She left you. You moved here. You’re with me, right?’

  I stepped back flabbergasted, getting angrier by the second that instead of falling into a passionate heap we were talking about his ex who was too lazy to keep her marriage or business going.

  I was careful not to run her down though, I knew it was important to keep the higher ground, remain dignified, and be in control. She was the bitch. I was the wonderful, kind, caring one.

  Stay calm, I told myself. Be reasonable. I searched for the right thing to say to end the conversation.

  ‘You’re not married anymore. So there’s nothing to make a go of anyway.’

  ‘Actually, technically I still am,’ he said softly, with a strained look on his face.

  ‘What do you mean you’re technically still married? You told me you were single!’ I could hear my voice getting louder and I felt a hot rush. I was losing control.

  ‘We never actually got divorced.’ He said the words softly as if he didn’t want
to hear them himself either.

  ‘What? Are you crazy? You’ve been doing all this with me and you’re still fucking married? You’re a fucking liar and a bastard!’

  I threw one of the candles from the windowsill at him. There was no point in telling myself to be calm now, it was too late. I started to breathe quickly as my mind raced and the room was blurry. I could hear him mumbling but I couldn’t decipher what was happening. I sat down on the bed.

  Jake sat next to me. ‘I’m only married on paper, I haven’t been in a marriage, so to speak, for over two years. I told you that.’

  ‘So why is she calling you in Prague then?’ Nothing was adding up. ‘I didn’t think you kept in contact.’

  ‘I sent her divorce papers last week and told her I’d met you, that I loved you and my future was with you.’

  I felt the walls in my already tiny room closing in on me. Despite all my efforts to not cry, I couldn’t help it. I started to sob uncontrollably, as if years of crying had been waiting for release.

  Jake put his arm around me, but I felt betrayed and pushed him away hard. My tears were burning my face, I was getting hotter and hotter and I felt dizzy.

  ‘Libby, stop, please,’ his voice was shaky. ‘I didn’t lie to you. I never got around to getting a divorce is all. Meeting you and realising that I never wanted to be apart from you is what set the legal process in motion.’

  ‘You’re a fucking liar, you all are,’ I screamed. ‘And you’re an idiot. Which makes you a perfect match for her. You deserve each other.’

  I punched him hard in the arm.

  ‘Get off my bed.’

  I felt like Jake had completely deceived me. I felt like the past months had been a lie. That there was no real connection, no love, no honesty, no future at all.

  She was coming back to claim what she should never have let go. She was the one he had loved all those years. How could I compete with all that history? Why did I fool myself into believing that it would be different this time, that the universe had been kind to me out of pity for all the misery of the past?