Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

by Ann Jacobus

  In the kitchen she opens a blue French sports drink, Allez Oop, and takes a few swigs. Then, head throbbing, she goes back and gets the bottle of vodka after all. This is an emergency. She measures in a modest half shot. She’s hydrating. She chugs half the sports drink and then pours in just a little more vodka. The alcohol enters her bloodstream fast, like a warm hug. She can breathe again.

  A box of Doliprane sachets—French Tylenol powders—sits on Mom’s bathroom counter. She dumps the flowers out of a small silver vase, pours in fresh water, two powders, and chugs.

  She sits on the couch in the dark living room, looking out at the moon rising above the Eiffel Tower, and the other city lights. She could sit there for a long time.

  Being still is best.

  Camus trip-trops across the wood floor. He looks at her then jumps up onto the couch. She pats her lap. “Really? Come on, then, it’s okay. I won’t bite,” she says. “Long as you don’t.”

  He jumps into her lap. Curls up, solid and warm. She strokes him, smiling at the fact that they could possibly be friends. He likes her better since she barfed.

  They supposedly bring in lap dogs at old age homes to let the patients pet because it lowers their blood pressure. Carrying Camus, she gets her music and puts on earphones. The sweet low melodies and gospel backup singers of Kentucky Morris’s latest, “Itemize My Demise,” fill her brain.

  Say you didn’t ask for this, turns out you did.

  She closes her eyes and scratches Camus’s ears.

  What does Camus think about being alive? A dog’s world has limits and as far as she knows, there’s no existential questioning, despite his name. And when you think about other creatures, like insects or viruses, it’s even more true. They don’t understand what’s beyond them. Could we explain the concept of near-death experiences or nuclear fission to a beetle? To Camus? But that doesn’t mean they don’t wonder. Or feel sad. Like Camus staring at the moon out the window. But he’s thinking, What the heck is that? Something to eat? He just wants to survive.

  So what’s beyond human comprehension, and our five senses? Probably a lot. This isn’t all there is, right?

  Sometimes it feels like Dad might be watching over her. At odd times, it’s like he just floated into the room. That would be cool, only he had a hard time watching out for her while he was alive so she’s not so sure it’s such a hot idea now.

  The vast majority of humans believe, feel, that there is something beyond this life. Something greater than us.

  They can’t all be stupid.

  One thing’s for sure: Humans are not in control. They like to think so. Mom thinks that. But they aren’t.

  Do any dogs ever not want to survive? A sick one maybe.

  Maybe she’s sick. Something could be seriously wrong. She probably needs help.

  She first got fixated on Pandora when she was twelve. Right after Dad died, come to think of it. That’s why she could relate to all that pain and evil Pandora let into the world. It was right where she lived. The spirit of hope—illustrated as a wispy little fairy trapped in the box—unsettled her deeply. At the time, it seemed like hope was left behind for humans as a sort of torture. To keep them suffering all those ills, and basically to prevent them from just giving up. It was so annoying.

  It still is.

  Kurt hugged that guy.

  Oh my god, she hugged poor Moony and knocked them both to the floor. She winces.

  Ha. It’s okay. He’ll forgive her.

  Eyes closed, she drops her chin to her collarbone. No, he won’t. He knows you for what you truly are now. Just like Grace and Conner and Katie. Katie, back in ninth and tenth grade, was a straight shooter, an athlete, then redefined herself as Justin’s girlfriend. They lost touch when Summer got kicked out of Hockaday. She and her best bud Conner had a big blowup near the end of her career at Verde Valley. But Grace from senior year at St. Jude’s was a lush, a slacker, and a traitor, and even she couldn’t handle Summer’s partying and whatever—unpredictability. For sure, now Moony’s had more than enough.

  She blinks and gulps a swig of vodka to loosen the tightness in her throat. She has a sobering vision of it igniting and burning her head and neck from the inside out, like a wildfire. The icebergs will crush it out, though.

  Here’s where the rubber meets the road. Yet more vodka, Summer? It’s for her extreme headache, but this has to stop.

  Strangely, as she strokes the warm dog curled in her lap, the slightest hope flickers within.

  There’s only one thing that really matters. She must do everything within her power to keep Moony’s friendship and respect.

  Well, after last night, maybe just his friendship.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Two hours later, it’s still Monday morning, and even though death by firing squad would be a welcome relief from this hangover, Summer showers, braids her hair, pulls on a sky-blue T-shirt under a blue-gray sweater that sets off her skin, puts on lip-gloss, drinks coffee, and calls a taxi to arrive at school on time. Her homeroom teacher does a double take when she sees her. Summer marches into first period English Lit and even though paying full attention is not an option, she sits ramrod straight and pretends to.

  Then she rushes to Moony’s locker, sure he’ll stop by. She spots him down the hall, walking slowly with Jackie, his skinny, highlighted, bejeweled, French-Lebanese friend. In fact, he’s leaning sideways, listening attentively to Jackie-the-selfish-cow’s animated monologue.

  Summer pulls herself into the science lab behind her, hides behind the door, and strains to hear Jackie’s conversation. They move into her line of sight through the cracked door, and Jackie stands on her tiptoes to give Moony a tender kiss, for chrissakes. The two walk off in opposite directions.

  Summer covers her face with her hands. She deserved to see that.

  She trails Moony to Concert Choir, then, at the last moment, she ditches it. Bawk, bawk, bawk, she thinks. She also skips lunch as even the smell of food will likely make her toss her tortillas all over again. By the end of the day, she can barely walk or chew gum or form sentences she’s so depleted. But she gets on Moony’s bus and sits near the front. He’s already in back with a couple of soccer players and doesn’t seem to notice her.

  Her only hope.

  Forty minutes later when he limps up the aisle at his stop, she jumps up, wiping her slick hands against her jeans, and gets off behind him.

  “Moony!” she calls. “Wait.”

  He turns. Dammit, he’s scowling at her.

  She takes a deep breath. “I want to apologize for booting all over you.”

  “Was a lot of upchuck.” The faintest of smiles pulls at his lips.

  “I’m really, really sorry. I forgot you were coming, I didn’t mean to drink so much, I hadn’t eaten really, and I—”

  “Poetry reading?”

  “What about it?” She’s twisting her intertwined fingers.

  “A pattern.”

  “I know, I know. I know. I’ve been partying a lot lately. And I’m a shit friend. Will you please just come have a coffee with me? My treat.”

  He pauses, looks pained, then pushes his hair out of his face as his jaw muscle flexes. “Okay. Therapy appointment in thirty.”

  They walk in silence the half block to the market street near his apartment, rue de Lévis. It’s already dark, and harsh yellow lights illuminate a few rough working guys swilling beers in Moony’s neighborhood café. The congenial patron, who has a long fringe of gray hair around a mostly bald head, knows Moony and calls out a greeting. Summer orders two espressos at the counter. The espresso machine hisses at her.

  At the small table, Moony says, “So. Alcohol’s a problem?”

  Summer hedges, “It probably has the potential to be, but last night was just an unfortunate, perfect storm kind of thing. Honest.” For the briefest of seconds, she thinks about telling him what she saw at Les Halles. But she can’t. Too raw and crazy. Besides, she knows how to cut back. She could stop all tog
ether, but she likes drinking. She needs it. “I’m so sorry. I swear to you it won’t happen again.”

  “Ever been to an AA meeting?” he asks.

  Her mouth drops open. “Alcoholics Anonymous? Are you joking? That’s for drunks! I mean, old people who are drunk all the time. I’ve been drunk, um, once.”

  Moony rolls his eyes.

  She runs a finger along a crack in the Formica tabletop and takes a deep breath. His disapproving look is annoying. Don’t get mad, she warns herself. Say why. “Moony, your friendship means a lot. I don’t want to lose it.”

  She glances at him. He’s stirring his espresso around and around with the little spoon.

  “Worried about you,” he finally says. “And can’t deal with this.”

  Summer doesn’t know how to respond. “I—I’m fine. And I won’t do it again.”

  “Don’t mind partying. But … drinking so much. Alone. Why?”

  “It’s fun.” She grins.

  He’s stone faced. “Why?” he repeats. “With your dad’s history.”

  “It’s more that if I don’t drink…”

  “What?” She doesn’t respond. “What?” he insists and something in his voice makes her strive for honesty.

  She squeezes her hands into fists. “It will … overpower me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because I’m not strong like you.”

  He shakes his head. “What will overpower?”

  She thinks of Kurt nibbling her earlobe, then swats it away. “Oh, the blizzards and wildfires in my head mostly.” She laughs in a too-high voice.

  He looks perplexed.

  She makes a funny face but knows she’s trying too hard to make this all light.

  Moony sighs.

  She gets it! She tires him out. He’s not sure she’s worth his time and all the energy she demands. She knows she’s not the only person in the world with problems. It’s just that right now, the avalanche or falling glacier—no, the Balrog of Morgoth—is so giant and so close, breathing fire and cracking that whip of flame, pulling Gandalf into the abyss ahead of her, there’s no room for anything else but trying to escape it. She knows she can’t do it alone.

  She knows she can’t do it much longer.

  “Look. You’re absolutely right.” Moony’s strong but he’s already carrying so much. He can’t carry her, too. “I have been overindulging. And I have to get my act together.” She pulls her flask from her backpack, then walks outside by the door and with a dramatic flourish pours what’s left (not much) into the gutter. She sits back down. “That’s it. First day of the rest of my life.”

  Moony fishes something from his backpack, then places four euro coins on the table. “Thanks,” he says, standing. She can’t read his expression. He’s not mad, but he’s shut down on her.

  “Wait a minute. I said my treat. You didn’t even drink it anyway.”

  “I gotta go,” he says, shaking his head, eyes closed.

  Her only friend limps away. Over the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

  “Can’t fool me. I can tell you’re really beginning to like me!” she calls. He’s almost out the door when she says, “Ha! Joke’s on you. I’ve got two flasks.”

  She doesn’t really, but thank heavens all that vodka is waiting in her armoire. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of her life. Right now she’s gonna order a brandy.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Summer takes a taxi home. She sits in the stuffed chair in her room and stares unseeingly out the dark window. Losing Moony as a friend cannot be crystalized away. It’s her own fault for thinking she could convince him to be her friend. How many times does she have to spit out the word “hopeless”? She can’t read or study, can’t eat, isn’t sleepy. She finally gets up to pee because she’s disinclined to wet herself, but huddles in bed without washing or brushing her teeth. She doesn’t sleep.

  Summer cuts school the next day. With tremendous effort, she rises midday and eats a bowl of lentils that Ouaiba fixes, then sits at the kitchen table and tries valiantly to study. It’s all that’s left, all that she has to hang on to. But everything she reads, she must reread. Then again. And again. And again.

  She needs some Adderall.

  Why is she even bothering?

  A notice in the folded International Herald Tribune on the table catches her eye.

  FEELING DOWN? NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE? SOS SUICIDE HOTLINE.

  A Paris number is printed in bold beneath.

  Summer doodles little triangles by the number and wonders who would answer if she called. Some old person probably. Would they speak good English? Excusez-moi? Jumping on a bridge? And if a person were feeling like jumping off a bridge, what would they say to them? What on earth could they say? It’s good that they have it, though. Seems like there’s a big market for it here.

  * * *

  That evening she’s doubly tired, but so not sleepy. She checks her phone again.

  Nothing.

  She remembers Dr. Garnier’s advice. She bundles up and heads out for a short walk. First she pours vodka into her flask. She didn’t drink all day, a record for her. And she really needs just a couple of small sips now. If she can maintain control over the amount, she’ll be fine.

  She heads up avenue Victor-Hugo to Étoile and then just keeps going, all the way down the Champs-Élysées. She’s strolling alongside six lanes of choked traffic, through crowds of Christmas shoppers and lovers, tourists, and prides of unsupervised, edgy young teens. She walks under sprays of red and white lights, past brightly lit très cher jewelers, the Renault show room, small and large movie theaters, brasseries, fast-food places, banks, and overpriced clothing, luggage, and souvenir shops. As in a bad dream, she keeps going, along stretches of dark park, past the huge fortress of the American embassy through the trees, all the way to Place de la Concorde. She’s still not ready to stop. In the Jardin des Tuileries, she shuffles along a lighted path and passes two cops on bikes. The Louvre sprawls before her.

  She crumples onto a bench, looking at a wall between her and the river, with the brightly lit I. M. Pei pyramid off to her left, and the Petit Arc de Triomphe to her right. She’s so tired, she’s numb.

  It’s quite a sight, the pyramid. The Tuileries in the dark is incredibly romantic. It would be so spectacular to have someone here to share it with. To warm her frozen hands. She forgot gloves.

  Inside her coat pocket, she fingers Kurt’s card and her flask. She unstoppers the latter and takes several big swallows.

  If you’re ever up for a movie or something, call me.

  She pulls out the card. It’s engraved on heavy dove-gray stock with black type:

  Konrad Vondur de la Rivière

  Hôtel Napoléon III

  Place de la Concorde

  Paris

  06.50.33.88.66

  Not a business card, more of a calling card; 06 is the prefix for cell phones. If he’s American he must have Euro parents with a name like that. And living at the super fancy Hôtel Napoléon? Jeez. He’s definitely not broke. It’s just a few blocks away. If he’s “home.” Okay, he’s … mysterious, and yes, a little unsettling. But he fires up one kind of warmth in her anyway.

  She knows it’s childish, but if Moony hates her, then why not?

  Before she can talk herself out of it, she taps Kurt’s number into her phone. He answers on the first ring.

  “Allô?”

  “I, uh, ahh, Kurt?”

  “Summer,” he says happily.

  “Uh. Hi.”

  “Quelle surprise.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m glad you’ve recovered from les égouts. When I came out, I saw you driving away in the taxi. I was a little worried, but knew you’d be fine. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Of course. It was an interesting experience.” If he was worried about her being sick or mad why didn’t he try to find out?

  “Where are you?” he asks.

/>   “I’m in the Tuileries. I was, um, just thinking about getting something, like, to drink and … I thought of you.” There. She said it.

  “Love to,” he says, fast as lightning. “Meet me at Café Marly in ten minutes.”

  “Oh. Right. In the Louvre.”

  “Summer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so glad you called.” He clicks off.

  She takes another deep swig from her flask. That was kind of romantic, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  In the bustling café, she sits at a table in the back and orders two Bloody Marys. The waiter says, “Someone is joining mademoiselle?”

  “Mais, oui,” she says. She has more energy now. Or maybe it’s agitation.

  And in he walks. He’s wearing a high-tech black ski jacket instead of his longer coat, blue oxford shirt and black cashmere sweater, jeans, and—she notes—Wellingtons. Olive-green rubber boots.

  “Puddle jumping?” she asks him as he kisses her hello. His unusual scent is ripe tonight. Sulfur-ish.

  “You’ll see,” he says, sitting. “You look ravishing.” He stares at her. If looks could eat, he would be gobbling her. “Ah, pour moi? How very nice.” He lifts his glass. “To … explorations and decisions.”

  “Sure.” Summer clinks glasses with him. “So how are you?”

  “Very well. And you? Settling in?”

  “Um, I guess so.”

  He narrows his dark eyes. “It’s aesthetically pleasing, as advertised, but a cold and heartless city, don’t you think?”

  She runs her finger around the rim of her glass. “Now that you mention it, yeah.”

  “I do have a treat for you tonight. An unusual outing. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Let’s see. How could you possibly top the sewers? The city morgue?”

  “No. Much more lively.”

  “Nascar racing?”

  “No, more intimate than that.” He’s laughing.

  “Nude mud wrestling?” She’s feeling downright loose and light. Sexy and funny. Thin and beautiful. Healthy and alluring.

  “Ha. Drink up. Let’s go.”

  “But you just got here.” She drains her glass.