IT’S NOT LOVE, IT’S JUST PARIS
PATRICIA ENGEL
Dedication
Always for my parents
Epigraph
“In love, hold on to what is.”
—Albert Camus
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Vida
Also by Patricia Engel
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
The first person to call it the House of Stars was Séraphine’s husband, Théophile, a drunk who often passed out in the entrance court before making it to the front door. He’d say that, from his cheek-to-the-cobblestone view, all he saw were faint lights, like stars, in the bedroom windows, and no matter the hour there were always stars out on our stretch of rue du Bac, which is also how Séraphine’s place got a reputation among others for being a house that never sleeps.
I’d just met her when she told me Théo carried on an affair with her sister, Charlotte, the whole time they were married, but he’d chosen Séraphine for his wife because she was the one who inherited the de la Roque fortune. Everyone knew about Théo and Charlotte’s romance, but back then people were more strategic in their marrying.
“It was the fashion,” Séraphine said, and believe me, a lot of things you’d never expect were the fashion. Soon after my arrival, I asked what happened to Théophile because I hadn’t yet met him but always saw his hat resting on the chest in the front foyer as if he were lost somewhere in the house. Séraphine rearranged herself among her bed pillows and lit a cigarette before sighing, “My Théo suicided himself seventeen years ago. The writer who lived across the way had done the same a month before. It was the fashion.”
Séraphine was a countess. Around the house, and even around Paris, people still kept track of that stuff even though titles went out with the Revolution. I was told by the guy who recommended me as a tenant that I should address her as Madame la Comtesse or just plain Countess if I planned on sticking to English, but I couldn’t utter either without feeling I was part of a performance. So, within hours of my arrival I asked if I could call her by her first name instead. Her kohl-lined eyes expanded to reveal their inner pink membranes and she took a while to respond. I was thinking this sort of friendliness might have been a grave mistake and wondered if there was a way to reverse it when Séraphine finally cleared her throat and smiled with what, using her frown lines as evidence, I took to be her first in years.
“Very well, Leticia. You may call me Séraphine. If you insist.”
Soon all the girls started calling her Séraphine, too, even those who’d been residents for years already and had always addressed her formally. Her grandson Loic tried to rectify my disgrace, saying it was rude of us to be so familiar and we should at least address her as Madame since we were all guests in Séraphine’s house, which wasn’t really true given that we paid good money to live there, in American dollars no less—a year’s rent in full, up front. But it was too late; the order of the house had already shifted.
Princess Diana had died while I was on the night flight from Newark to Paris. The taxi driver tossed Le Figaro with the headline and picture of the tunnel crash across my lap and drove me from Charles de Gaulle over to the Seventh. I remembered watching her wedding on television with my mother when I was a kid and it didn’t feel like so long ago, but now that was just a story people would tell, and instead of happily ever after, it would be And the princess and her lover died together in Paris. The End. The news of her death made me feel old and brought on a sharp longing for my mother, who’d turned her back from me at the airport so I wouldn’t see the shine of her tears. The taxi driver let me keep the newspaper. He’d bought multiple copies, he said, figuring they’d be worth something because it’s not every day a princess dies. I tucked it into the back of my jeans and dragged my two suitcases off the sidewalk, across the courtyard to the countess’s house, and into the foyer. Nobody turned up when I rang the bell.
Like Séraphine, the House of Stars must have been very beautiful once. You could see the allure and majesty under the costume of Persian rugs, marble floors, molded ceilings, enormous chandeliers, and gilded mirrors. But if you looked closer you’d see the rugs were darkened with age, spotted with cigarette stains, worn with high-heel holes. The marble floor, chipped and decades overdue for a polishing. The moldings, cracked with cherubs missing heads or wings, the mirrors fogged over, their frames tarnished, the chandeliers missing crystals and bulbs. Then there were the decorative details: wooden furniture with mother-of-pearl and enamel inlays that were Louis something or other, chests and tiny tables holding figurines, and miniature silver boxes—the sort of stuff you’d see at any garage sale back home. And that bouquet of old tobacco, lingering despite all those little glass bowls of lavender potpourri.
A voice called and I followed it down the short hall off the foyer.
And then I saw her: Séraphine, propped up by a mound of white cushions in a large mahogany sleigh bed floating at the center of the room over a floor layered with carpets. Lace curtains shrouded glass doors that opened onto the back garden. She was dressed in a white bed gown, her legs covered by an airy duvet, looking porcelain with what was left of her long, colorless hair swiped into a tight bun. Pearls drooped off her ears, her thin lips were covered in a runny red pigment, and her light eyes were lined with a dark gunk that was her trademark and probably the reason for her cataracts. Even in bed, fat like a panda, she was an elegant sort of lady, just like the younger Séraphine staring back at her from the framed photographs lining the yellowed walls, and I often wondered what her husband didn’t see in her.
By then, Séraphine was almost ninety and hadn’t left her room in three years; a vestige that came with the house. The maids called her the maharani because doctors, friends, and the bits of the world that mattered to Séraphine came to her when summoned. They said she would have to be bulldozed out if any of her descendants were to have their way and try to sell the house, as I soon learned her own daughter was hoping to do.
When I asked Séraphine why she decided to rent out rooms in her house, she explained that before it was the House of Stars it was the House of Felines. Théo, who was the obsessive type, had collected his way up to fifty or so of some rare breed of Siamese, and each room, which now boarded a girl, once housed five or six cats, plus a few favorites who had free reign of the estate. Théo treated the cats like curios and spent his days visiting each of them, brushing them and clipping their nails, whispering in Russian because Théo was Russian in his former life, rumored to be Jewish, though it was never mentioned, because the de la Roque family wanted people to think they were thoroughly French and Catholic, throwing around that old proverb that a good name is worth more than a golden belt. The maids said that was also the reason Séraphine never took Théo’s giveaway of a last name and why he was so taken with the writer across the street who was also Russian and Jewish in some capacity.
One day Séraphine got fed up with the cats. She said she couldn’t do anything about Théophile sleeping with her sister like it was his God-given right, but she could evict the cats because it was her house, inherited from her father who favored her as his firstborn.
She’d wanted to pack up the cats and send them to live with the prostitutes and bums in the Bois de Boulogne, but those cats were each worth a small bundle, so she found herself a cat broker and sold him the lot for a lump sum. He came to collect them with a van full of cages one evening while Théo was out drinking. When he sobered up the next day and saw the cats were gone, Théo had a breakdown and Séraphine was certain he never really forgave her. It was Théophile’s idea to fill the rooms with girls now that the cats were gone. They started out with two, then three, and worked their way up to eight. She said Théo found keeping young girls just as amusing as keeping cats. The maids murmured that for all their blue blood and this property, one of the few remaining hôtels particuliers on the Left Bank, the de la Roque family was broke. The countess discovered an easy income in housing allegedly well-bred debutante borders and plenty of parents eager to pay a onetime noblewoman to supervise their daughters en séjour.
I was the only new girl that season. There was a long waiting list to live in the house, and a girl was considered only if personally recommended as I was by a former Nouveau Roman professor who was tenuously related to Théophile. Each girl was given her own private room on the second and third floors while Séraphine lived downstairs. Her grandsons, Loic and Gaspard, the sons of her only daughter, Nicole, had an apartment in the smaller west wing of the house, accessed through a separate entrance or through a narrow hideaway passage under the stairs leftover from the war. Séraphine assigned me to the bedroom above hers at the top of the staircase on the second level, a tunnel-like space with a set of double doors opening onto the corridor and a pair of glass panels on the opposite wall leading to a small balcony overlooking the terrace and back garden. Within it, a single bed with a limp mattress pushed into a corner, a small desk, a folding chair, a black lacquer dresser missing a few glass knobs, and a red velvet love seat with sunken cushions and splitting wooden legs.
Even though there were three maids, Violeta, Flora, and Mara, Portuguese sisters whose mother was the rarely seen concierge living in a little apartment just inside the entrance court, and Loic and Gaspard were supposed to be the house managers, I’d arrived when everybody was taking their lunch. Thus no one came along to help drag my bags upstairs or to show me where things were, like the kitchen or the common phone, which only received incoming calls, or to tell me the toilet was on one end of the hall while the tiled washroom with a curtainless bath, handheld shower, and sink were down the other end.
I’d opened the balcony doors to clear out the stale air and was kneeling on my bedroom floor, pulling clothes from a suitcase, when I noticed twin pairs of sandals in the doorway belonging to two girls staring down at me as if I were a raccoon rummaging through a trash pile. I don’t have sisters, just two brothers—one older and one younger—I hadn’t had many girlfriends at school and felt like I knew my way around books better than people. I was twenty years old, graduated from a top university with honors, two years ahead of schedule in life, but still a social novice. And these girls, Tarentina and Giada, as they introduced themselves, came off as a fearsome twosome, their dirty blonde hair in tangled bobs, black bras peeking from the tops of their nearly identical knee-grazing floral dresses and similar firm round breasts that Loic later told me they’d purchased together during last year’s Easter holiday in Tarentina’s hometown of Rio—it was the fashion.
Giada, slightly shorter, leaned on the door frame, her lips in a permanent pout, while her friend asked who I was and where I came from with a quasi-British twang I’d learn was standard among the Swiss boarding-school set. I told them my name was Leticia but I went by Lita and I was American. By their faces I could tell they did not believe me.
“What are your last names?” Tarentina asked.
“Del Cielo. It’s the only one I’ve got.”
She smiled, though not warmly.
“That sounds like a stage name. What’s your blood?”
“My blood?”
“Your lineage,” she sighed, already bored with me. “Your country. You know, what are you made of?”
“Colombian.”
“Indian, I presume.” She turned to Giada. “That explains the jungle face.”
In fact I was named for a jungle city in the Amazon on the shared frontiers of Colombia, Brazil, and Peru. I didn’t come out of the jungle, but my mother did, found abandoned on a road and turned over to some nuns who took her back to the capital. Back then, indigenous babies were nearly unadoptable, and instead of turning her over to an orphanage, the nuns raised my mother in the convent. I didn’t feel like explaining any of that, so all I said was, “I guess it does.”
“Well, Loic asked me to tell you he’s on his way. He usually does the welcoming. We’ll chat more once you settle in.”
They departed with a “Ciao Ciao,” their sandals flapping down the stairs over their soft laughter, until they were out the front door. Dread spread over me. I’d hoped to live on my own in Paris, scouring classifieds in a secondhand FUSAC, circling affordable studio apartment listings, but my father had insisted he’d only let me live abroad if I had company, a respectable witness to my existence. The House of Stars was the compromise I now began to regret.
A short while later, Loic, gangly in his gingham shirt, pressed trousers, and prematurely wrinkled face, tapped on my door and introduced himself.
“So sorry not to have been here when you arrived. I had an emergency of sorts. Well, a friend had an emergency.”
I stood up to greet him, shaking his bony hand.
“Have you had a look around the house yet?”
“Yes. It’s … nice. I met your grandmother and some of the other girls. Giada and—”
“Tarentina.”
He stared at me, his eyes a watery blue.
“The first day is always the hardest.”
I forced a smile.
“I’m just tired. From the travel. The time change.”
“Why don’t you take a break from your unpacking and join me outside for some fresh air.” He held out his hand as if luring me off a ledge.
Loic’s idea of fresh air was a cigarette. We sat on the front steps of the house, his knobby knee gliding against the blue jeans I’d pulled on the day before back in New Jersey as my father shouted from downstairs that if I didn’t hurry, I’d miss my flight. Loic offered me a Lucky Strike from his pack. I wasn’t a smoker but I’d smoked plenty with Ajax, my childhood best friend, who was a real fiend, especially when he was coming off drugs. I might never have come to Paris if not for Ajax, whose real name was Andrew Jackson, just like the president. We were early nerds together, thrown together in the exile of the “gifted” classes and Saturday enrichment programs at the local college. He was traumatized into being an achiever since he found out that his father, whom he’d thought was dead, was actually a dentist with another family across town and Ajax’s mother had been his receptionist. We went to the same school as his half siblings, and Ajax decided to excel in class to make them look like the losers.
Ajax and his mother lived in a tiny apartment above the liquor store, and my family lived in a professionally decorated mansion, but he still thought we were minority trash because his mother raised him on the myth that they were the long-lost cousins of the Kennedys. His mother left him alone a lot, and afternoons, when we were meant to be studying at the library, we’d hide out in his room watching Bones Brigade videos and planning our destiny as supercool adults. Neither of us really fit into our whitewashed town of monograms and country club memberships, but I didn’t mind much because Ajax always said community is just conformity with a rose behind its ear.
Ajax got me into skateboarding and one day took my dare to try a hand plant in our drained swimming pool and broke his back, which took him out of ninth grade for four months. When they weaned him off the painkillers, Ajax, who now walked like an old man, made friends with the liquor store gang outside his door and landed on heroin. He was currently in jail for trying to kill his mother. I
’d never visited him but I once sent him a box of books he’d lent me over the years. Most of them were stolen from the library or local bookstore anyway. They were sexy books. Books about Europe and elsewhere, people living uncharted lives—the kind of people we both wanted to be after high school. Then, Ajax said, we’d really start living. But the box of books was returned to me, so I took it to his apartment hoping to leave it with his mother, but she had moved, and when I asked down at the liquor store, nobody knew where she’d gone.
Maybe it was the rotated yellowing teeth, the hollow cheeks, stork-thin arms, or the way Loic held his cigarette between his middle and ring finger, but my memories of Ajax built an instant bridge of familiarity between us. Maybe it was his eyes, pale and beckoning. Maybe it’s just that lonely attracts lonely.
Loic was the kind of guy who’d drive down Avenue Foch in his Mini and pick up a young hooker only to give her free money and offer to help her find a decent job somewhere. He really did that, about once a week, but I was the only one who knew, because I’ve always been the sort of person people find it easy to tell their secrets to. The truth is I’m very quiet out loud, shy like an escargot, saving my chatter for the privacy of my own mind, and I’m only talky like this when I’m still trying to understand what things mean to me.
I took the cigarette Loic offered me that afternoon thinking it was a good way to christen this new life. Loic didn’t say much, not even when I broke into a coughing fit after my first drag. He looked over his sharp shoulder and, through his smoky smile, as if he could read my weariness and fears, said, “Don’t worry, Lita. You’re going to be very happy here. I promise.”
My father says you can’t go anywhere without leaving something behind. It sounds better in Spanish—less simple, although my father is a simple man. He’s a tycoon now but he was illiterate until he was nineteen and says poverty can’t be covered by a new suit, which also sounds much better in Spanish, but you get the picture.
It's Not Love, It's Just Paris Page 1
