A Paris Apartment

by Michelle Gable

  Remembering something Birdie had dug up about a set of woefully hard-to-describe chairs, April went to check her e-mails and was startled to find her phone dead. How long had it been off? Twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? April remembered powering down while at the firehouse. Was it possible she’d never turned it on again?

  The phone seemed to take hours to come to life, to scroll through the programs and see what needed updating. Finally the voice mails appeared. Eight, to be exact. Troy would be annoyed. Worse, her father would be panicked. April cringed as she recalled the missed incoming phone calls from the night before last, when she was out with Luc.

  “Sorry, Dad,” she said aloud, nervous fingers fumbling for the Voice Mail button. “Please don’t call the gendarmes quite yet.”

  Before she had a chance to listen to the messages, April’s BlackBerry whirred. She checked the number: It was her brother, unsurprising since she’d inadvertently gone radio-silent.

  “Ack, hi, Brian,” she said straight off. “Is Dad looking for me? I’m so sorry I’ve been incommunicado. I didn’t even realize my phone was off for two days. Please tell him I haven’t been abducted or bombed on the Métro. I feel horrible. I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

  “April.”

  Brian’s voice was sharp. It was never sharp. Suddenly April understood that something was wrong. She should’ve guessed it the moment she saw his name. It was almost noon in Paris, which meant six o’clock in New York, which meant three in California. Three o’clock in the morning: the dead part of the night, too late for night owls, too early for early birds. This was when bad stuff happened.

  “What time is it?” April’s skin went cold. “Why are you calling me this early? What’s going on? Are you okay? Is Allie okay?”

  “Have you talked to Dad? Tell me you’ve talked to Dad.”

  “He called while I was out for my birthday, and I was going to call him back. I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

  “Tell me you called him back.”

  “I didn’t even realize my phone was off. I’m so sorry. I’ll call him right after we hang up.”

  “Fuck,” Brian said once, and then a few more times for good measure. This was not like her brother, the good-natured techie surfer. He rode waves, he did not create them. He didn’t worry. He didn’t stress out.

  “Brian. Please. Tell me everything’s okay.”

  “Ha.” He laughed bitterly. “Not okay at all. Shit. Well, I guess I’m going to have to tell you right now, over the phone, which is a motherfucking bitch. What choice do I have?”

  “Brian, you are seriously freaking me out.”

  He inhaled deeply and let out a sad, angry, twisted laugh. Then he spoke.

  Chapitre LIV

  There are the moments you know you’ll remember forever as soon they happen: your engagement, standing at the altar and saying “I do,” the news of your spouse cheating, someone saying the words “you’re fired.” All those beautiful and wretched pieces of news available on your personal movie reel at any second and until the end of time.

  Still, April was surprised to find she could not remember this particular moment. Within seconds of Brian spitting out the words, she’d already forgotten how he said them. Of course she recalled the gist of what he told her, the gist of how she felt. But April would only ever remember what she did next.

  The minute Brian hung up the phone (did either of them say good-bye?), April dialed Luc’s number for a reason she could not comprehend. April only knew she needed someone, and she didn’t want to call Troy. In hindsight it was an inappropriate reaction but at the time it seemed like the most natural thing to do.

  “Bonjour, Avril!” Luc’s voice came over the line. There was a pause as he bumped and shuffled. A door closed. “Have we recovered from the birthday festivities? Did you see the news? One of the firehouses burned down that night. Ironic, non? A firehouse burning down. If only they had some fire trucks in the vicinity.”

  “One of the firehouses burned down?” April thought of Marthe and the others scrambling out of the Bazar de la Charité maze. She could nearly taste the smoke and hear the screams. For a moment she forgot about Brian’s news, for a longer moment still her night with Luc. “Is everyone all right? Were people hurt?”

  “Everyone escaped unscathed, thank goodness. There was quite a lot of damage but none of the human variety.”

  “Oh.” April said and exhaled. “I’m relieved to hear it. Listen, I really need to talk to you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” April said, only barely remembering to be embarrassed by their night together, by the fact he’d touched every inch of her, that she’d wanted him to. He knew her intimately; and not just physically. Perhaps this should’ve sent her into fits of insecurity, but it seemed silly now, like worrying about your luggage as the flight went down. “I was wondering if I could see you. Is there somewhere we can meet?”

  “Avril, you are concerned about the other night, non?”

  “Actually, no—”

  “Please don’t get so serious about it and worry-worry-worry. I know how you are. Enjoy it for what it was. No need of explanations and backtracking…”

  “No,” April said with force. “Not that. That. It happened.”

  “Oh.”

  “And it was great.”

  “Yes.”

  “This—is not about that. It has nothing to do with you, really. I don’t know why I dialed your number. It’s just … I mean—”

  “Avril? What is it? Now you have me worried, which will never do.”

  “I can’t—I can’t—” she stuttered, sobs working their way up her chest but sticking in her throat and making it hard to breathe.

  “Is this about Marthe?” he asked. “The flat?”

  “This is about me. Present day. Something happened.”

  “Where are you?” he said. “At your apartment? I will come now.”

  Her apartment? April blanched. Their night together was, apparently, not as far away as she suspected. The image of him showing up at her doorstep brought instant panic. She thought of her messy living room, the still-rumpled bed, her clothes scattered across the floors, plus about a hundred other clues as to what happened between them. No. There would be no Luc in her apartment today.

  “I’m—I’m at a café,” she said. “Not at home. Never mind, Luc. I shouldn’t have called. It was stupid.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “No. The apartment’s a mess and I—”

  “Then you come here. Do you still have my address?”

  “Your address?” She thought for a moment. It was, of course, still in her phone. Not that April had intentionally saved it, she just wouldn’t have permanently deleted a text from Luc. “I think so.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Where are you now? How far away? In the Ninth?”

  “Yes,” April said, a little dazed. Was she really going to do this, was she really going to show up at his home and dump her problems at his feet? “Are you sure you want me to come over? I realize this isn’t very professional, and I don’t want to put you out—”

  “Just come. No excuses or apologies. Just come.”

  “All right,” she said, nodding and biting her lip. “À bientôt. I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapitre LV

  April’s chest quivered as she slipped the phone into her pocket. She wondered how she might stand, how she might get all the way over to the Sixteenth without first shattering into a million pieces.

  After dumping a stack of euros on the table at the exact second the waiter delivered her order of Croque Madame, April bolted out of the restaurant and hailed a cab. Leaping into a taxi, she read Luc’s address to the driver. She slammed the door and off they puttered toward the Sixteenth.

  She had to do something. April needed to fill the space instead of staring out the window letting dark thoughts take residence in her brain. Voice mails. She had to check her voice mails. None of them could be wor
se than what she’d just heard.

  There were eight in total. April was right. None topped Brian’s announcement because they were all variations on what he said. The slow build-up, the increasing urgency, the dancing-around-of-what happened. Troy had no messages about her birthday, but even he belted into the phone, “Call me right away! It’s urgent!”

  April was glad she heard it from her brother first. Brian was the best possible person to deliver bad news. If only Troy had used him as an intermediary those months ago! Then again, that news almost seemed like nothing now, even if Troy’s confession was unexpected and what her brother said inevitable, the high-magnitude aftershock April had been bracing herself for.

  “Madame?” The cab driver peered over his shoulder.

  “Pardon?” April said as she deleted the last voice mail, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Nous sommes ici.”

  “Oh.” April looked up. “Indeed we have. Merci beaucoup.”

  She passed him the money and lunged out of the car with the very distinct knowledge that he was watching her go.

  Positively relieved at the sight of Luc’s building, and then the feel of his stairs beneath her feet, April sprinted up to his apartment, hiccupping and sweating as she went. At his doorstep she knocked with one hand, the other pressed against the doorjamb to keep her body upright.

  “Entre donc!” Luc called. “It’s unlocked!”

  Shaking, April jiggled the ancient, loose doorknob, fussing and pulling until she was finally able to push through to his living room. She stood in its center with tears trickling down her face and neck, mouth curdled in a sob. She paused to catch her breath.

  “Luc?” she said, voice strained. April wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “Are you here?”

  He walked through the kitchen door then, hands on his hips. April wondered if Luc knew how often he stood like that.

  “You arrived much faster than expected,” he said, blinking fast. He looked nervous, which April understood. If not for Brian’s news she would’ve been nervous, too.

  “Luc, it’s so good to see you,” April said, falling against his chest. “I am so sorry for bothering you, but I had to come.”

  “Au’ voir, Luc!” a voice sang from the back bedroom. “À ce soir!”

  It was a woman—a woman’s voice. Vomit splashed up the back of April’s throat as she pulled away from him.

  “Who … is…” April struggled to get the words out as she turned toward the sound.

  A woman floated into the room then, a woman dripping in Chanel, Hermès and Parisian litheness. Her hair was long. And straight. And thick. It was the exact color of caramel. Was she a model? A ballerina? She really could’ve been either.

  “Ma belle,” Luc said and put an arm around the woman’s waist, grimacing the slightest bit. “C’est mon ami, April Vogt.”

  Luc enunciated her name like he normally never did. APE-ril. She felt exactly like a hairy, lumbering primate right then.

  “Ah! Avril!” The woman’s face lit up. “It ees so PLAY-zure to meet you!”

  He had a girlfriend. Of course Luc had a girlfriend. It was stupid to care. Shallow. Short-sighted. But care she did. April thought her heart had broken all the way by then, but as it turned out, it had room to crack a little more.

  “Bonjour,” April said, reeling. She found herself glaring at Luc, though she had no right to.

  “Oh!” the woman squealed again. “Très bien! ’Allo! ’Allo!”

  April shot Luc another glance.

  “Everyone’s questioning—” she heard him mumble as she turned her attentions fully toward the woman.

  “Everyone’s questioning”? Questioning what?

  “Ravi de faire votre connaissance,” April managed to choke out, graciously, she hoped.

  “This is Delphine Vidal,” Luc said and gestured toward the woman. “Banker extraordinaire.”

  “Zee banker gaming … what do you call it? ‘Hooka’?”

  April crinkled her forehead. “Uh, I’m not sure what you mean…”

  “Hooky,” Luc corrected her. “‘A banker playing hooky.’ You’ll get it right soon, mon amour.”

  Delphine pretended to pinch his ear.

  “Zees man of mine ees trés terreeble.” Delphine shook her head and grinned. Her teeth were blindingly white and disturbingly straight, rendering her almost horsey, but in a good way. There were horse people and there were equestrians, and Delphine Vidal was the latter. “So zees ees sweet Avril! I hear very so lots of much about you! “

  “I’m surprised Luc has even mentioned me,” April stuttered.

  “Luc speeeks about you all zee time,” Delphine said, still beaming. “Zees is so ’appy to meet!”

  “Oh, well, that’s very kind,” April said, though she was decidedly less “’appy to meet.” She hadn’t known English spoken horribly could sound so appealing. “Thank you.”

  What had she been thinking? Of course Luc had a girlfriend. Why wouldn’t he? And what did it matter? Did she really envision herself hooking up with some Frenchman despite one (albeit perfect) night? Did she fancy herself Marthe and him Boldini? That she could walk into his apartment and he’d let her watch him paint until she felt normal again? Maybe next they could head to the morgue.

  The woman probably knew about the other night, too. A pity-fuck, no doubt, Delphine offering her paramour for the greater good. She seemed exactly that progressive, and exactly that generous.

  “Luc say you are from zee cee-tee of New York?” Delphine said, green eyes twinkling.

  “Elle parle français,” Luc told his girlfriend as she struggled to form the words. “Ça va?”

  “Yes. I ’ope to practice zee English!” Misunderstanding the directive, Delphine grinned ever wider, the ends of her mouth now somewhere near her earlobes.

  “Trés bien, mon amour!” Luc smiled in return.

  Where he’d been fidgety and anxious ninety seconds ago, the usual Luc was starting to reappear, the man April knew, or imagined she did, anyway. He made a few teasing remarks to Delphine about her English, then squeezed her backside. April snapped her head away so fast she kinked her neck.

  Those hands. They’d been on her such a short time ago. April’s face blazed in embarrassment and anger.

  “I. Have. To. Go,” Delphine said, separating each syllable. “Very so much PLAY-zure to meet you!”

  She leaned in and bestowed upon April the double-cheek kiss.

  “The pleasure is mine,” April quacked.

  “Au ’voir!” Delphine danced away, waving over her shoulder. Platinum-and-diamond bangles twinkled along her arm. “À bientôt!”

  As though a desert wind just flashed through the apartment, Delphine Vidal was gone, leaving Luc and April empty and dry-mouthed on his fancy wool and cashmere rug.

  “Her English is very poor,” Luc said.

  “She tried. That’s what counts. Is Delphine your girlfriend?”

  Luc paused before answering.

  “Oui,” he said at last. “She is. But understand, you are not the only one—”

  “Does she live here?”

  “Did you come to ask of my living situation?”

  He sounded annoyed, as if April had no basis for the question. On the other hand, maybe she didn’t. April shook her head.

  “I want to know,” she replied sheepishly and turned toward the window. “I need to know.”

  “No,” he said and sighed. “She does not.”

  “Where was she the night before the Fête Nationale?”

  “Working on a transaction in Luxembourg,” he said. “Avril, why are you here? You said something was wrong. Let’s talk about that instead of my living situation. Although if you wish to continue on this path, indeed I might have a few questions for you as well.”

  “Point taken,” April grumbled.

  “Avril?” he said again, this time gently reaching for her arm.

  “I dunno, Luc. Maybe I should just leave. It’s so long. Sordid.
”

  April inhaled deeply and studied Luc, wondering if she still trusted him enough to share the news. Somehow the answer was yes.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Well.” She exhaled. “I did come all this way. Bothered you in the middle of the afternoon”—saw things I shouldn’t have—“I guess. Well.… Remember when we were out the other night and my phone rang? And you said to take the call and I said no?”

  “Oui. Your father. Ringing with birthday wishes.”

  “Yes. Well, sort of. It was my dad, but that’s not why he called.”

  April closed her eyes. She took in several more breaths. Everything inside her body churned.

  “Avril.” She felt Luc shift on his feet. He brushed his fingers against her arm. “What happened? What is wrong?”

  “It’s my mother,” she said, and her eyes popped back open. “She—well—she died. My mother died.”

  Chapitre LVI

  Once the words were out of her mouth, spilled onto the furniture and across the floor, April sank down onto Luc’s couch and buried her face in her hands.

  “What do you mean, ‘she died’?” Luc asked. “When you were a teenager?”

  “No,” she said and looked up without caring about her red and mottled face. “She died the night of my birthday, when we were at the firehouse. Although it was technically morning in California. Either way, while we were eating sausage my mother had a fatal stroke.”

  Luc did not respond. He remained on the other side of the room, an eternity of space between them. It hurt her that he was so far away. It was physically painful.

  “I do not understand,” he said. “You told me she already died.”

  “No I didn’t. I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  “Name one time I said she had died. One.”

  “Well, I can’t recall specifically, but surely you must have.”