by Alix Nichols
The thought gave her pause. Was this the real reason she had run away from Cyril the other day? Because she’d realized he might touch her like that again and kiss her and… who knew? So she left, afraid to disappoint the man of her dreams—the man she’d loved for so long it had become part of her identity.
Emma had fallen for Cyril at thirteen, on the day sixteen-year-old Geraldine came home with her cute new classmate. The two of them stayed in Geraldine’s room for hours, admittedly studying. But Emma’s room was next door, and she could hear them talk and laugh and fool around. Cyril strummed the guitar he’d brought along and sang songs she’d never heard before. They were funny, sad, silly, superficial, and wise. All at once. They moved with ease from the importance of doodling to bonds of friendship and from there to the meaning of life. They were so melodious she couldn’t help tapping her foot to the beat.
She loved them.
And before she knew it, she loved him.
But Cyril only had eyes for Geraldine. And who could blame him? Unlike most kids her age, Geraldine sailed through her teens without so much as a medium-size zit to tarnish her angelic face. She was confident, witty, luminous, and immensely popular. As for Emma… At the time, she’d been hopelessly self-conscious. She hid her face behind her hair and wore baggy sweatshirts and loose-fitting jeans to conceal her lack of curves. She was still the family’s baby—someone to watch over, patronize, tease, and never take seriously.
And that was exactly what Cyril had done, taking his cue from her parents and Geraldine. He called her Boney Em, as a nod to her thinness and the famed ’70s disco group. Considering how much time he’d spent at their place during the two years he and Geraldine dated in high school, the conversations he’d had with her were remarkably short and few.
The most frequent situation when they talked was when he would ring the doorbell, and she would open the door. He’d smile and say, “Hey, Boney Em. What’s up?” But his gaze would slide over her and travel to the dark hallway leading to Geraldine’s room. He’d peer, trying to decipher if Geraldine was coming out to meet him. His feet would point in that direction. Emma knew it because she always looked down when she talked to him. He would stay put just long enough for her to say, “Hi Cyril. I’m fine. Geraldine’s in her room.” Then he’d nod and head there, offering a polite, “Bonjour, Madame Perrin,” when he passed by the kitchen where Mom lingered.
Had Geraldine been in love with him back then? It was hard to say. One thing was sure: her sister enjoyed having him around. Cyril was undeniably cool, and Geraldine liked everything that was cool.
Then the two teenage lovebirds finished school and went their separate ways. For six years, Emma only saw Cyril when she went to his concerts. Initially, he performed in small bistros and neighborhood cafés. After his first album became an overnight success, he began to sing at trendy places like Chez Luke and L’Espace and lately at Le Zenith and the Olympia Hall.
She had attended his every Parisian performance and a great many concerts in other parts of France. She’d traveled to Belgium and Switzerland when she could. She had even invented a boyfriend in Lyon to explain her frequent trips out of town. Her mom and dad were still upset over her refusal to introduce said boyfriend to the family.
After all, he was the only one they’d ever heard about.
* * *
Emma arrived at the bistro at seven thirty. It was still half-empty and relatively quiet, the dinner service having barely begun. Cyril was already at his usual spot, biting into a delicious-looking hamburger. She stepped in and marched toward him, anxious to cover the short distance before she lost her nerve.
When she halted by his table, he put his hamburger down and turned in her direction, his expression uncertain.
She exhaled, refilled her lungs with air and opened her mouth. But no sound came: Her tongue simply refused to move.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
She gripped the back of the chair in front of her. “Hi. You’re here. What a surprise.”
Her words tumbled out, rushed and clumsy—not casual and unaffected as she’d intended. Emma rolled her eyes skyward, the temptation to bang her head against the marble tabletop almost too powerful to resist.
He narrowed his eyes. “Laura?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t expect to see you again after… last time.”
“I just—” She swallowed. “I just stopped here for a quick bite before heading home… after my photo shoot… around the corner.”
Get a grip, woman.
“Did it go well?” he asked politely.
“Yes, thank you.”
Emma was about to inquire if she could sit next to him, when the room erupted in loud noises, high-pitched screams and a few select curses. She turned around. What she saw was the most spectacular case of indoor flooding she’d ever witnessed.
Water had breached the ceiling and cascaded down, showering the unfortunate guests sitting under the crack. Judging by the amount of it, a pipe must have leaked for a long time in the apartment above the bistro. As the customers leaped to their feet and scrambled to get away from the downpour, another hole opened up above the bar area. A second jet gushed down, hitting the counter, knocking the neatly stacked glasses to the ground and soaking the baskets of sliced baguette.
“What’s going on?” Cyril asked.
“The Deluge.”
“Everyone out, please!” Jeanne yelled as she zoomed by with a bucket that she placed under the first leak.
Another server put a big saucepan on the counter to collect the water from the second hole.
“Messieurs-dames, please leave immediately!” the proprietor bellowed. “It isn’t safe for you here. All checks are on the house.”
“I’m not leaving,” Cyril said loudly.
“You’re in the mood for a cold shower?” Jeanne shouted.
He shook his head. “I just received training at Mobility Help on how to respond to home emergencies, including leaks and flooding. I know exactly what to do.”
“That’s great.” Jeanne turned to Emma and gave her an emphatic look. “But you heard what the man said. Out, both of you!”
“You need to shut off the water supply,” Cyril said, unflustered. “Can you locate the valve?”
“Already did.” Jeanne nudged the bucket with her foot. “And Rob called an emergency plumber and the fire brigade. There isn’t much else we can do, apart from praying there won’t be another hole.”
“You better turn off the electricity in the building as an additional precaution,” Cyril said. “Do you know where the main switch is?”
“Must be in the basement.” Pierre cut in. “I’ll take care of it. Rob, come with me. You’ll hold the torchlight.”
When both of them were gone, Jeanne turned to Cyril. “Thank you, honey. But you must leave now.”
“What about the furniture?” Cyril’s voice was full of concern. A little too full. “The wooden chairs, the marble-top tables... I bet they’re vintage.”
“How did you know?” Jeanne asked.
Cyril ran his fingertips over the back of a chair. “The shape. The texture…” He stroked the tabletop then gripped its edge and tipped the table a little. “The weight.”
“They’re from the 1920s and 30s,” Jeanne admitted. “Pierre’s been buying them for the bistro over the past twenty years.”
“Well, then he wouldn’t want them damaged, would he?” Cyril paused, then added, “I could help you take them out…”
If his last words weren’t a desperate plea, then Emma didn’t know what was. She peered at Jeanne, praying the waitress would understand what this meant to him, how much he needed to feel useful, competent, in charge.
Jeanne threw her hands up in resignation. “How do you propose to do that?”
Thank God.
“If someone—you or one of the other waiters—could give me a hand, we’ll push the furniture away from the water.” He leaned in, enthusiasm palpable
in his voice. “And then we’ll carry it all out to the terrace.”
“I’m in,” Emma said. “The artist in me can’t bear letting such fine pieces be ruined.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Laura.”
“OK,” Jeanne said. “I need to help Claude and Didier take care of the electrical appliances and empty the pantry under the bar. So I’ll let you guys salvage the furniture.”
“Don’t touch anything that’s plugged in until Pierre is back,” Cyril warned.
“Yes, Mom,” Jeanne said and winked at Emma.
When she was gone, Emma touched Cyril’s hand. “Follow me.”
For the next thirty minutes, they pushed dozens of chairs and tables toward the entrance door and then evacuated them outside. During that time, the firefighters and the plumber arrived. Pierre and Rob returned from their mission and started explaining the situation to the professionals. Men in uniform ran to and fro, carrying toolboxes, equipment and ladders. A group of onlookers gathered around the terrace, watching the show.
Emma registered all of that in a strangely detached way, as if she were watching a 3-D movie. Her immediate reality was the hot jolts of pleasure that shot through her body each time her hand brushed Cyril’s. It happened when she guided him to a piece of furniture that needed moving, when they lifted a table together or when she handed him a chair to be carried outside.
As they shuttled between the front room and the terrace, Cyril looked concentrated and purposeful. But Emma noticed—unless her heightened senses were messing with her brain—how his expression changed when they touched. And how he didn’t rush to break the contact.
When they transferred the last chair to safety, she found comfort in the hope that he’d suggest they have a well-deserved drink at another cafe or at his place. They would talk. She’d be sure to encourage him to touch her again like he’d done last time. And she wouldn’t run, no matter where his exploration led them.
Jeanne emerged from the kitchen, shook Emma’s hand and then Cyril’s. “Thank you, guys! Your selfless heroism will become legend, like Claude’s 2006 tiramisu. It’ll be passed on from one generation of servers to the next.”
“It was fun,” Cyril said. “What’s the story with the tiramisu?”
Jeanne took a theatrical pose. “On July 27, 2006, Claude made a tiramisu that gave all of the female guests a deep, multiple orgasm at the first spoonful.” She paused for effect. “Unfortunately, he never managed to find the exact same proportions of mascarpone, coffee, brandy and ladyfingers. And that is how the 2006 Orgasmic Tiramisu became legend.”
Emma giggled.
“When do you expect to reopen?” Cyril asked.
“In a couple of days,” Jeanne said. “As soon as the ceiling is patched up and the apartment upstairs drained.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He smiled at Jeanne and then turned to Emma. “Thank you for supporting me! Jeanne wouldn’t have taken me seriously if it weren’t for you.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Emma said.
He picked up his cane. “I’d better be going. See you around, Laura.”
“See you around,” she murmured, doing her best to hide her disappointment.
He walked down the street, disappearing behind passersby and reappearing for brief moments, until his distant silhouette completely dissolved into the evening crowd.
Chapter Eight
Cyril
He wished they would stop the rumpus and go home. He wished they had never started in the first place. The initiative was no doubt well-intentioned and looked great on paper. It should have made him happy and grateful.
But instead it annoyed him to no end.
He was now forced to fake enthusiasm to indulge the proactive trio that had gone to great lengths to organize this surprise. They’d researched, purchased, and arranged for the delivery of a custom-built recording studio. It had all the necessary hardware and software and even a vocal booth to keep the noise pollution out. Every piece of equipment was accessible for the blind. The hardware was simple and tactile. The software was intuitive and talking. It included programs to convert conventional scores and to transcribe his own compositions in Braille.
And now his three meddling buddies and a technician dispatched by the manufacturer were busy setting up his magical studio in the nook of his living-room. Louis, his agent and unrepentant gadget buff, oohed and aahed every time the technician demonstrated some cool functionality. Adrien—a certified geek—rivaled Louis’s excitement. Adrien’s wife, Nat, emitted appreciative uh-huhs and ooh la las and kept asking Cyril what he thought about it.
The trouble was Cyril couldn’t tell her what he thought. Because he thought the home studio idea was a huge waste of their money and time. They should have checked with him first before deciding to play Santa. Had they asked, he would’ve told them he had no need for the studio, didn’t want it, and wouldn’t use it.
He didn’t compose or sing anymore. His guitar was collecting dust on top of a wardrobe. None of his many sleepless nights had begotten a tune, a verse, or even a line of lyrics.
Music was simply no longer a part of his life.
“So what do you think?” Nat asked again.
“Sounds cool,” Cyril finally said, choosing not be a party pooper.
“How about we try one more thing?” the technician asked for the hundredth time over the past couple of hours.
He itched to say, I’d rather not. But he just nodded.
“Put the headphones on. Now press the big button labelled record and plug in the headphones here. OK?”
“Oui, monsieur,” Cyril said with a smirk.
But his sarcasm was lost on the guy, who gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “And voilà! You’re recording! To stop, just press the other big button—the one marked stop.”
Cyril dutifully executed. “Amazing.”
“We’ll send a programmer next week to customize the workstation to your specs and teach you to use the more advanced software. But for now, you can play with the recorder and use the basic functions I just walked you through.”
“Great,” Cyril said. “Thanks.”
An hour later they were finally gone—first the upbeat technician, then Louis, and then Adrien and Nat. Cyril savored the blissful silence for a few minutes before deciding he needed a drink. He put his shoes on, picked up his cane, and headed out the door.
On his way to La Bohème, Kiki called to ask if he felt like joining forces to drown their sorrows in alcohol. She had recently been dumped by her boyfriend and was going through a rough patch. When they met for drinks, he was the one to do the cheering up, which was refreshingly different from almost every other social situation he’d been involved in of late.
When Kiki arrived, he'd just finished his first beer.
“Feeling better?” he asked her.
“Depends. You need to be more specific.”
“Feeling better today than last time we talked?”
“No.”
“A glass of Chablis?”
“Yes. Please.”
He ordered her wine and another beer for himself.
“What about you?” Kiki asked.
“Same old. Still blind as a bat.”
“Is there a chance your eyesight might return?”
He nodded. “Oh yes. The only problem is that it’s lower than my chance of being struck by a lightning.”
“Well, it’s probably still higher than my chance of getting back together with Romain.” She snorted humorlessly and rummaged through her purse from the sound of it.
Something tiny hit the table.
“Next to your beer,” she said.
He felt the surface of the table until his hand brushed a small round object. He placed it in his palm and stroked it with the index finger of his other hand. “Hmm. A pill with a smiley face etched into it. I think I know what it is.”
“It’s magic,” she said. “Aka Ecstasy.”
“Since when have you been doing
drugs?”
“I don’t do drugs. It’s just… an ad hoc measure. A friend of mine got me these babies to see me through my blues.”
“Kiki—”
“I’m not saying you should do like me. But I can tell you when I popped one of these smiley faces last week, I felt great for three days. All my despair, darkness, hopelessness—it all went away. It was amazing.”
“Yeah, and next time you pop one, you’ll OD.”
“No chance. I’m going to take only one pill per week, just so I can feel better for a while until time blunts the pain.”
“And that’s your friend’s genius plan for your recovery?”
“Why, you have a better idea?”
“Sure. Pack three kilos of chocolate and go to Tahiti.”
“You forget I’m not as rich as you are. Besides I can’t take vacation until Christmas.” She grabbed his left hand and folded his fingers over the pill. “This one’s for you. Keep it for the day you hit the rock bottom.”
“There are lines I won’t cross no matter what.”
“If I were you, mon pote,” Kiki said. “I would never say never.”
Chapter Nine
Emma
She’d gotten up at five in the morning to make as much progress with her work as she could before heading to La Bohème. Having watched him from afar over the past week, she’d figured out his schedule. It looked like he went to the bistro twice a day: first for breakfast and a beer and then for dinner and more beers.
At around five in the afternoon, Emma grew so restless her concentration eluded her. She packed her sketches and her laptop with the unfinished design and walked out into the golden afternoon. The métro ride was crowded and much too long, and when she jostled her way out of the train at Cadet, it was already six. Which was OK, she told herself as she raced the escalator to the exit. She still had at least an hour’s head start—enough time to complete her project and rehearse her little speech before Cyril arrived.
