by Alix Nichols
He grinned, his facial muscles suddenly relaxing.
And then he began to sing.
Sweet Lord, that voice. So intense and yet perceptive. So quintessentially masculine—deep, velvety, a little ragged on the edges. It always had the same effect on her ever since she heard him sing for the first time in Geraldine’s room all those years ago. In fact, “hearing” didn’t even come close to conveying what his songs did to her. They enveloped her, penetrated every inch of her skin, every muscle and tissue held under it, and went straight to the twenty-one grams of mysterious substance people called a soul.
* * *
Epilogue
Cyril
Emma’s palm is clammy when I take her hand. We’ve been here for a full day and a night. Seems like a lot longer. I’ve stepped out a few times to use the bathroom or have a bite. Emma isn’t allowed to eat. My poor darling has gone without food for twenty-four hours.
The nurse tells me it’s not a problem; she’ll be fine; it’s normal for women to go through prolonged labor these days. I know—something to do with the way the human race has evolved. Babies’ heads have become bigger to accommodate their smart brains, but women’s pelvises have remained the same. Which means that difficult childbirth is now the norm rather than the exception.
Thankfully, Emma’s had an epidural. They injected an anesthetic into her spine, just the right dose for her to be fully conscious but feel nothing below the waist. She’s exhausted, but she isn’t in pain.
I don’t think I could handle this whole experience otherwise.
“Would you like me to fetch the iPad?” I ask. “You could watch an episode of ‘Friends.’ It helped distract you earlier.”
“Thanks, mon chou, but I’m too tired for that.” Her voice is small, almost a whisper.
Someone enters the room and goes directly to the corner where the nurse is monitoring the screens. Sounds like the obstetrician’s heavy stride. I’m glad he’s come to check in on Emma again.
“Sorry to wake you up so early, Docteur,” the nurse says. “But the baby’s heart rate is too fast. Looks like the cord got wrapped around its neck.”
What? No. No, no, no.
I hold my breath.
“Not to worry, parents,” the doctor says. “This happens a lot and is rarely life-threatening. But we need to act fast. We’ll move madame Tellier next door for the C-section.”
“A C-section?” I repeat like an idiot.
Emma gives my hand a squeeze. “Phew. I thought they’d let me rot here forever.”
I try my best to sound cheerful. “You’ll be fine. You’re in excellent hands.”
“I know. This is going to be over soon.”
She withdraws her hand, and they roll her away.
This is going too fast.
“Monsieur Tellier, you can stay and wait here, if you want,” an unfamiliar voice says.
I nod. I cannot speak.
As soon as the room’s gone quiet, I begin to pray. I’m not sure God pays attention to my prayers, though. Why would he want to listen to someone who only prays in emergencies… and who isn’t even sure he exists? And if he does, I doubt he likes what he’s hearing or approves of what I’m asking him to do.
Thing is, I suspect he’s cross with me for some yet undetermined reason. I also suspect I wasn’t meant to survive that car accident two years ago, or the desperation that followed. But here I am—the blind and scarred SOB who refused to give up. I’ve adapted to my loss of sight, rebuilt my life and begun to make music again. People love my new songs. And as if that wasn’t enough, a woman like Emma loves me.
When we got married, I didn’t want her to take my name. I told her it brought bad luck. But she just laughed and said she didn’t believe in superstitions.
I should’ve insisted.
I shake my head and go back to praying.
God, let them be fine. Let them both make it. If you need a sacrifice, take my voice, my hearing, my legs, my arms, anything. And if you’re determined to reduce the number of Telliers on this planet, will you please take me? I’m ready to go any time. Just spare Emma and the baby. Please. Amen.
I concentrate all my energy on this prayer and beam it up to the stratosphere, trying to outshout millions of other prayers for a chance to be heard. Suddenly, an image fills my brain, and I break into a cold sweat. It’s a vision of the doctor cutting Emma’s belly open. I can’t see the baby in my mind’s eye. I don’t care about the baby right now. All I want is for Emma to make it through this ordeal.
Because she’s the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful human being there is. Because I love her more than words or music can convey.
Breathe, Cyril. She’ll be OK.
I’m well aware how low maternal mortality rates are in this country. Emma has excellent odds, a thousand times better than she would have had a century ago. But I’m scared shitless.
So I pray some more.
Dear Lord, if you absolutely must take one of them, then spare Emma. Please spare Emma.
I cringe, half-expecting a bolt of lightning to fry me on the spot or a huge divine fist to flatten me for what I just wished. As I said, God and I aren’t close, so I have no clue how he would react to the brutal honesty of my prayer. I don’t have the foggiest how he’d take my admitting that, if I had to choose, I’d pick my wife over anyone, including myself and our baby.
Another fear creeps into my feverish mind: What if the problem isn’t my honesty but my love—too much of it—directed at another person? Doesn’t religion tell us to only love God? Or was it God in all things?
A little voice in my head—must be one of the scattered remains of my sanity—whispers that how I feel or what I think cannot change the course of Emma’s life. She has her own destiny. And right now it’s in the hands of the obstetrician and of God—or Randomness—but definitely not in mine.
The voice calms me down a little. I take several deep breaths and try to concentrate on the faint noises coming from the hallway. But then I notice that my hands are trembling. And so are my legs. The world is slipping out of control, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
A shrill cry comes from the operating room.
It’s a baby. Our baby.
Someone walks in. I recognize the nurse’s light shuffle.
“You can touch your boy,” she says. “He’s beautiful.”
“How’s the mother?”
I can’t—I won’t—touch the baby until I hear her reply.
“She’s fine. Docteur Prouvost just finished sewing her up.”
I breathe, processing the information.
“You’re pale as death,” the nurse says. “You shouldn’t’ve worried, poor thing. This is one of the best labor wards in Paris, and Docteur Prouvost is one of our most experienced obstetricians.”
I take a deep breath. “Can I talk to her?”
“In about half an hour. We’ll transfer her to her room, and then someone will come and get you. Do you think you’ll survive the wait?”
I nod and hold out my hand. The nurse lowers the baby—we’re going to name him Leo—and my fingertips come into contact with soft, warm skin. It’s his foot. An inconceivably tiny little foot with minuscule toes and microscopic nails on them. I stroke it, wrap my index and thumb around the plump ankle, caress the sole. On an impulse, I lean forward and press my lips to it.
And that’s when I see God, right here beside me, smiling.
It’s a humbling sight.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome,” the nurse says, and takes Leo away.
A grin spreads across my face. After a while, my cheeks start to hurt, but it won’t go away, won’t shrink even by a millimeter.
Emma lives.
And I’m a dad.
<<< <> >>>
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Bonus Chapters
From “What If It’s Love?”<
br />
(Bistro La Bohème Series)
When the hottest man in Paris - Rob Dumont - shows interest in geeky, introverted heiress Lena, she suspects something fishy.
And so she should.
~~~
The man, who spoke mostly Russian, had remained glued to his cell phone throughout his meal. When he finished, he collected his change and placed a ten euro bill on the table.
“Merci, monsieur! It’s a very generous tip!” Rob grinned.
The service being included by default in all checks in Paris, the locals tipped scantily if at all. With the recession, even the tourists were beginning to heed the advice of guidebooks and do like the French.
“No trouble.” The man stood to leave, then turned to Rob, and said in unexpectedly decent French, “Listen, would you like to make some extra cash?”
Has God finally heard my prayers? Rob tried to subdue his enthusiasm. “Depends . . . What’s the gig?”
“Nothing difficult. There’s this rich kid—”
Rob shook his head. “Sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think I’m interested in hearing the rest of it.”
On second thought, maybe he should hear it—and alert the police.
The man tut-tutted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people when they speak? Let me start again. There’s this Russian kid—she lives in this very building. Her father is my main competitor in business. I just want you to make friends with her, be around her as much as you can, and keep me informed of anything that may be of interest.”
“Like what?”
“Like when during his phone calls or visits they discuss something related to his business. Or his travel plans. Or any kind of plans.”
Rob furrowed his brow. “How often does he call her? And where is he?”
“In Moscow. He calls her every day, and from what I’ve seen, they talk for at least thirty minutes. She’s his only child, so my guess is he’s grooming her to join the business.”
“What business?”
“IT services.” The man arched an eyebrow as if to say, What did you expect?
Rob glanced around the room. Things were slow this afternoon, and the other waiters had the situation under control. But he had to get back to work.
The man shrugged. “Basically, I’m asking you to do corporate espionage of sorts.”
“But won’t this kid be speaking Russian with her father?” Rob’s asked. The gig didn’t seem to be anything horrible like kidnapping, but it still didn’t sound quite legitimate.
The man smiled. “And you can understand it, can’t you? I noticed how you smirked at some of my, shall we say, colorful expressions when I was on the phone. Are you part Russian or did you learn it at school?”
Rob sighed. There went his attempt at polite refusal. He might as well admit to this observant captain of industry that he spoke Russian. “School and evening classes. I’m a business student, so foreign languages are a big asset.”
“How admirable. Do we have a deal, then? I’ll pay you decently, so you can cut down your working hours and focus on your studies.”
When the man told him the amount of the “commissions” for each piece of intel, Rob’s mouth fell open. Jesus. If he delivered a dozen reports over the next few months, he’d be able to pay the school fees in full before the end of August.
And get his MBA.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to spy on some chick in relation to her father’s activity, right? Just pass on whatever I overhear from her in this regard, and no funny business. I need to be sure of it.”
“That’s right. I’m not a mobster, you know. Do I look like one to you? Where do you think I learned my French? I’m an educated man and a respected businessman.”
Rob raised his eyebrows, signaling he needed to hear more.
The man curled his lip. “It just so happens that Anton Malakhov—that’s the girl’s father—has been seriously hurting my business lately. He’s determined to grow even bigger. And he plays dirty: dumping prices, stealing clients, and so on. I’ll go bust if I don’t get my act together. And this includes taking some . . . unorthodox measures.”
“Including a little foul play of your own,” Rob said.
The man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go ahead and look me and my company up.”
Rob took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout approach?”
Boris sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A practically nonexistent social life.”
“Have you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide his sarcasm.
The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to spying on him.”
“What happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first steps.
Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”
“How come?”
“She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”
“Give me a day to think about it.”
Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”
Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”
“Of course I am.”
Rob shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”
“Must be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your stereotypical Russian oligarch either.”
* * *
Stepping out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.
My new home.
Her gaze lingered on the café, Bistro La Bohème, that occupied part of the ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings, wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.
She crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.
Trash.
What a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!
A few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment. She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th arrondissement, or le neuvième, for its diversity. Quintessentially French, le neuvième was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its arched passages cutting through handsome buildings were lined with antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions, forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a map.
Originally, Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in Switzerla
nd, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie neatness.
Not that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be. She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs, she’d been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen. When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The one that put an end to their relationship.
“I’m moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn, with their croissants and paper coffee cups.
“Oh,” Gerhard had said.
As she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.
As the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.
So that she could bang her head against it.
“Why now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at length.
“I want to write my thesis there.”
“Isn’t it easier to write it on campus?”
“It is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”
Come on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything.
He shrugged. “OK, then.”
Her throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.
“After I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”
He stared at her.
Ask me to stay. Please. Just ask.
“I don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”
She gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn. So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.
