I stare into his beautiful eyes, not knowing what he wants me to say. “I don’t know!” I whisper, my voice rising in a small wail.
“Or you could stay with me,” he goes on. “Let me and Maman take care of you until your flight tomorrow.”
“Yes!” I say with a little cry of surprise and relief as a warm feeling spreads through my stomach and heart. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Gerald Polk steps into view, rocking back on his heels as he lights up one of his nasty cigarettes. He blows out a blast of smoke and smirks at me. “You are a difficult girl. Your teacher is pretty angry. So is Robert.”
I can’t speak, but do I care? Maybe a little, but not enough to say goodbye to Jean-Paul at this very moment and never see him again.
“I have a car parked down the street,” Gerald informs me. “Let’s make this easy on both of us. I’ll drive you to a very nice hotel. You’ll get a voucher for dinner, a good night’s sleep, and a shuttle will take you to the airport in the morning. You can call your mother from there, talk to Madame Sauvant, your friends, and everyone will be happy again.”
“Sounds like you have it all worked out,” I say, stalling for time as I whip my head around.
Jean-Paul has disappeared and my heart crashes to the ground. My palms begin to sweat, wondering where he went. How could he have deserted me? Didn’t I just tell him I wanted to stay with him? Did he not understand me?
Gerald walks over to a trash can where there is a pot of sand for cigarettes. He grinds the end of the filter in it, just as I hear the sputter of a scooter coming across the cobbled stones of the street.
“Jump on, Chloe!” Jean-Paul yells, bumping up over the curb and braking right in front of me.
Flinging myself onto the back of the seat, I hold on to his waist for dear life as Jean-Paul revs the engine, shoots through an opening in the crowd, and bumps over the curb. We’re gone in ten seconds. Pressing my face against Jean-Paul’s back, I take a tiny peek behind me. Gerald Polk is standing on the edge of the sidewalk shaking his head at me. Then he smiles and disappears into the crowds.
What was that for? I wonder.
“That was close, but we lost him pretty easy,” Jean-Paul says as he finally parks the motorcycle at the market kiosks on a side street. “But we should keep an eye out for him. I think he’ll be back.”
“I get the same feeling.”
Jean-Paul locks up the scooter and we spend the next half hour trying on French bérets and chic hats, then examining miniature pewter dragons and gargoyles and whiskered cats.
“Have you climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe?” he asks as we exit the last tiny store.
“Um, no.” Actually, that was a fib. Sera and I had done it a week ago when we first arrived in Paris, but I wanted to go up and see the view of the city again with Jean-Paul.
“Hey, no fair,” I cry after he purchases the tickets to go up to the top of the arch. “There are two hundred steps! In case you forgot, I’m still getting over a sprained ankle.”
“Two hundred and eighty four to be exact. You can take the elevator or I’ll give you a head start, m’lady,” he says, bowing like a knight, and then glancing up at me with a grin and a set of gorgeous white teeth. “But I suspect your foot is just fine today.”
My eyes widen and I punch him lightly on the arm. “It did hurt yesterday—I wasn’t faking!”
He just laughs. “No worries, Chloe. I believe you.”
“Ha! I’ll take you up on that head start,” I say with a growling laugh. After a couple of minutes he ends up right behind me because his legs are longer, and it’s going to take more than a day to get my running feet back up to par.
“I thought you said you were a track star,” Jean-Paul teases, breathing down my neck.
“That head start was a hollow promise,” I gasp as I reach the top at last and step out of the never-ending circular staircase into sunshine.
“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to believe you took second at State,” Jean-Paul says, pretending to ignore my grunts as he guides me around clusters of tourists so we can view the city from every angle.
Beautiful old buildings surround me, balconies loaded with flowers shower a heady scent, and I could get lost on the quaint and winding, narrow streets. From here I can also see the ornate stone bridges spanning the Seine River that I love so much. I think I’ve stepped back in time a hundred years—if I ignore the wild traffic and neon lights down the Champs Elysées.
And then I really do step back in time because Jean-Paul takes me to L’Opera next. The Paris Opera house is the setting for the Phantom of the Opera, my absolute favorite Broadway show. I think I’ve watched the DVD with Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum eighteen times at least. I can practically repeat the script.
The last time I saw the show on stage was with Dad for my twelfth birthday. That was our last big outing before he got so sick he couldn’t even get to the end of the hallway to grab the morning newspaper.
Jean-Paul finds a place to lock the scooter up—although I could hug his back and let the wind blow my hair wild for hours as we cruise the city—and we slowly walk around the perimeter of the Opera House, which sits on an entire city block. The architecture takes my breath away—intricately ornate with statues and cherubs and white glistening columns.
I picture myself arriving in a horse-drawn carriage a hundred years ago in my fashionable opera dress with lace at the base of my décolletage, ready to recline in a velvet chair and wait for the heavy red draperies to rise. I’m so caught up in it all, I bump into Jean-Paul who holds out a hand to steady me, giving a chuckle.
“You’re going to sprain your other foot. What are you doing?”
“Um, nothing.” Will I forever embarrass myself in front of this guy?
He smiles and then takes my hand to guide me through a back door. “This way.”
We’ve circled the block and I look up at him, surprised that we get to actually go inside. It’s a Sunday afternoon and museums are closed and about half the shops. But there are still hours and hours of daylight because in the summer time, Paris doesn’t get dark until long after ten o’clock, which is great for sightseeing, wandering around the city, and sitting in a café with friends—all of which stay open because hanging out with drinks and food and friends is definitely a local favorite past time.
Then suddenly, from around the corner of L’Opera building, Gerald Polk steps out, putting up a hand to stop us.
He startles me so bad, I let out a yelp. “What! How did you find us here?”
“That doesn’t matter, Chloe. Now quit these silly games of running away and get into the automobile. I’m losing my patience with you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I trust you any more.”
Gerald Polk yawns and puts a foot on one of the steps leading up to the opera house. “Did you ever?”
I bite my lips, then stick my hands on my hips. “Not really.”
“Can I see some identification?” Jean-Paul says, stepping forward.
“Of course,” the tour director tells him, and stops to get out his wallet and extract one of those business cards with the cartoon of the joyful, touring students all hanging out a bus window as though they’re in junior high rather than high school or college.
“Picture I.D., s’il vous plait,” Jean-Paul adds.
While Mr. Polk is digging for his driver’s license, Jean-Paul grabs my hand and we dart up the steps to the Opera House. He pushes on the small rear door of the opera house—not the public front door—pulls me through and slams it behind us, expertly locking it.
Before I can take a breath, Gerald Polk is pounding on the thick wooden door, his voice calling to us, muffled.
“You are getting sneaky, monsieur,” I tell Jean-Paul. “Are we allowed in here?”
“Of course. How do you think I know about this secret back door?” He leans closer, confiding in me. “Chloe, forget about that guy for a l
ittle while, d’accord? Because this is my favorite place in the world and I want to show it to you.”
Chills run down my arms. “I think our minds are linked together, like we’re old lost friends or something.”
Jean-Paul turns back from the door to stare at me. “What are you saying?” he asks softly.
“What I mean is,” I chatter away, trying to hide the fact that I’m suddenly flustered. “Phantom of the Opera is my favorite story, my favorite movie, my favorite theatre production . . .being here is like a dream come true.”
He nods silently and I see the muscles in his neck as he swallows—as though he’s thinking about something really, really hard. It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever had. Being with him is truly like we’ve known each other in a different life or a different time. I can’t explain it.
Jean-Paul guides me through another door and into an enclosed hallway, taking my hand firmly in his so that I won’t stumble around and bump into the walls or pitch myself down a dark staircase. I know that’s the reason. Besides, he’s gripping my hand in a very platonic, friendly way, but it feels as though my hand has suddenly become electrified.
The feeling is powerful and amazing and just plain obvious. I can’t help wondering if Jean-Paul feels the charge running through our hands too, but he doesn’t say anything. Holding hands with a guy has never felt like this before. I don’t know what that means, but I’m excited and confused at the same time.
Jean-Paul casually slips his hand from mine as the wooden hallway door closes with a creak behind us. Slowly my eyes adjust to the dimness.
“How can you just sneak through the back door?” I whisper, wondering if we’re breaking and entering.
He whispers back, “My uncle works here. I just need to make sure there’s no rehearsal going on.”
How lucky am I?
The grand foyer is silent as a tomb as we glide across the sleek marble floor. Gold is a major color scheme. I get a crick in my neck staring up at the lofty domed ceiling with its paintings and ornate woodwork—all covered in gold leaf. There are no words to describe the utter majesty and beauty.
Jean-Paul’s voice comes out from the softly lit shadows. “What do you think?”
“I’m speechless. And I keep pinching myself that I’m really, truly here.”
“You’ll be black and blue by morning then, because we’ve only just begun.”
All I can think is, Sera will die of envy when I tell her.
We wander rows of gilded seats in the hushed air of the theater auditorium. My head spins in circles as I whip around to stare at carved ceilings and paneled walls and murals and velvet and alabaster statues and busts. It’s all just as I’d imagined it.
There’s even the fantastic chandelier hanging overhead, thousands of crystals catching the light like glittering diamonds. I try to picture it crashing to the floor as it happens in the movie, feeling a tiny shudder. I can almost hear the screams of the audience, the flames of fire, the heat, the panic.
“It weighs six tons,” Jean-Paul tells me. A couple of spotlights glow down below on the stage, pinpoints of light in the huge, dark theater, and I can almost hear the rustle of ladies’ dresses settling in for an evening of La Bohème or La Traviata. My mom and dad used to be culture fanatics. Until Dad got sick.
We try out the patron’s box seats and then Jean-Paul takes me onto the stage itself. I stand there, pretending I’m Christine looking out at a packed audience, wanting to throw out my arms, wanting to pretend to sing, wanting to flirt with the Phantom, to flirt with danger and sex.
Suddenly, Jean-Paul tags my arm as though we’re playing a game. “You are it!” he says in a stage whisper. Then he races across the wooden floor of the stage and darts behind the heavy velvet curtains. I can barely open the stage curtains myself as I reach for him in the shadows while we play the childish game of hide-and-seek. We’re like two silent mice darting through the curtains, around stage props and scenery, muffling giggles, holding our breath, and then bursting into laughter when we bump into each other in the dark.
“You’re good,” Jean-Paul tells me. “Very silly, but good.”
“I was the neighborhood “Kick The Can” winner when I was nine.”
“That’s a game you’ll have to teach me.”
“We’ll play it tonight. When it gets dark.”
“Ah,” he says with a teasing look in his eye.
“Oh, you!” I say, trying not to be embarrassed. “Kick the Can is completely innocent. A little scary sometimes when you’re only six or seven and hiding out in the neighbor’s alley under a bush, but way fun.”
“Come on,” Jean-Paul says, tugging on my arm again to go exploring the dozens of rooms behind the stage. “You’re very easy to tease.”
Narrow corridors and hallways branch off in every direction, open to the rafters overhead.
“Hundreds of actors and dancers used to live and work right here, making the theater their actual home,” Jean-Paul tells me like a tour guide.
There are dressing rooms, living quarters, spiral staircases, backdrops and pulleys and huge sets. More prop rooms than I could ever begin to count. The place reminds me of a magical maze, and I feel lost in it all, but I’ve got Jean-Paul to lead the way. Every time he reaches out to grab my hand when I linger too long or takes my arm when I need a boost up a ladder, his touch produces the same powerful jolt.
I stop trying to figure it out. One day I’ll just blame it on the magic of L’Opera. Maybe it’s just Paris itself. I’m sure this feeling will go away as soon as I get home and back to my old life. I’m infatuated with Paris. Which means I’m infatuated with Jean-Paul. Nothing more than that.
We finally take a rest on one of the old catwalks. The walkway isn’t hanging suspended in the air, but lying on the floor in the back of the stage waiting for repair so we’re perfectly safe hanging out there. No masked Phantom lurking around to chase us up into the air where ropes and pulleys can be deadly.
Jean-Paul and I kick back and talk about everything. From running track to schoolwork, favorite movies, favorite foods, family vacations, and most embarrassing moments.
“You had a front row seat during my most embarrassing moment,” I tell him. “I used your cream puffs for hair mousse.”
“Ah, and splendid it was,” he says, sitting back to gaze at me with his perpetual smile.
A comfortable silence comes over us, and I can hear rustlings and whispers in the corners of darkness. Softly, I say, “There must be spirits walking the halls around here. Theater ghosts from past productions over the decades.”
Jean-Paul nods. “I’ve always believed they are here, watching over things, but the ghosts only show themselves after midnight so we’re safe.” He reaches out to squeeze my hand, and then quickly pulls away as if he’s done it without thinking. “For years I’ve always thought I was crazy to think there are ghosts. Nice to know I’m not alone.”
“We can be crazy together,” I tell him with a quirk of my eyebrow.
He grins, his dark eyes rising to meet mine. “Deal.”
I want to ask him about Elise, but I’ve been too afraid to speak her name out loud since he has never mentioned her. Maybe I’m making way too much of it. Unfolding my legs, I start to stand, but Jean-Paul touches my arm to keep me from getting up.
“I need—I mean—I want to tell you a story. My sister loved to come to the opera house, too,” he says, and now I know for sure we’re reading each other’s thoughts. “We’d visit Uncle Victor and make up our own plays. Hide out if we wanted to get out of working in the pastry shop. My mother eventually caught on to where we were going.”
“You mean there were times you didn’t want to work in the shop?” I ask in mock horror.
“There are days we all want to escape,” he says softly. “Right?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, and his words make me wonder if that is what I’m doing here in Paris. Just wanting to escape. To run away from my life. I want to be treated lik
e I really am eighteen, an adult. But I also want to forget about my problems with my mother as well as Mathew and the uncertainty and hurt between us.
Sometimes I also want to run away from the weight on my heart over the loss of my dad. There are times when his death is so acute, it’s almost physically painful. He was the one I talked to the most about friends and teachers and problems. He never got emotional or crazy, just listened and empathized. My mom reacts with panic and outrage. I’ve had a week of forgetting during this trip, but now it’s time to go back to it all, and I’m not ready.
“Her name was Elise,” Jean-Paul suddenly says.
When he speaks of her in the past tense my heart drops. A long drawn-out silence fills the space between us, and it feels as if the very air of the auditorium is holding its breath. “I know,” I say softly. My words have startled him, but then his confusion clears.
“Mais oui. Right. Her name is above the table in her room. She died almost two years ago.”
I lean forward, suppressing the urge to touch him. “I’m so sorry, Jean-Paul.”
“I don’t want to burden you,” he adds quickly. “Most people don’t like to hear me talk about her. They never know what to say. It’s awkward.”
“You can talk about her all you want. My father passed away, too. Four years ago. He was sick for a long time.” I can feel his eyes on me, questioning. “You know the whole Sunday cemetery trips with my mother I was talking about earlier? We go to visit my dad. It’s the only place my mom can get away and feel some peace. That probably sounds strange, but the cemetery is pretty, almost like a park and very peaceful. A place to get away from it all. Away from the constant noise and stress of the city, and bills, and life.”
Deliberately, Jean-Paul takes my hand and places it between both of his own. His hands are warm, his fingers strong, and the feeling of his hands wrapped around mine is unexplainable as my stomach rises into my throat. “You know what it’s like, then, to lose someone you love so dearly. Not many people do.”
“What happened to her, to Elise?”
“Brain tumor. There was surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, but it grew too fast. Only ten months from diagnosis.” Jean-Paul glances off into the darkness, and then looks back at me.
Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel Page 13
