Frankie in Paris

by Shauna McGuiness

  “Bon soir,” Henri called after me.

  I wondered if he had a wife and family. Maybe I would ask him. He seemed harmless enough, and I was sure I would need some conversation with someone other than my grandmother, some time during our trip.

  Already dressed for bed, she was waiting for me, wearing emerald green silk pajamas. The pants were hemmed to fit her diminutive height. Her top was short-sleeved and had buttons all the way down the front. Glamorous was she, even at bedtime.

  “I should have let you buy the boots,” she apologized, twisting the multiple rings on one of her fingers. “I should have just let you buy them.”

  “It gives us an excuse to go back to the Bastille Market.” I said, “It was pretty wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  Smiling, she smoothed some perfumed cream on her hands. The party downstairs was getting louder, developing a new attitude.

  After getting ready for bed, I slipped my headphones over my ears and closed my eyes, listening to the music and thinking about home. I decided that the stain over my head might just be a big, sloppy heart.

  By the time the tape ended, I was already asleep.

  5

  Tour de Paris and Beyond

  Lulu was already dressed when I woke.

  “You need to hurry. We are going on a tour today, I’ve just arranged it.” She was bustling around our room.

  “Where are we going?”

  I stretched and stared at the ceiling. The brown mark resembled a fireworks explosion. Maybe a bouquet of flowers.

  “We are going to Palace Versailles. Henri pulled some strings to get us on today’s tour. It was very expensive, so we can’t be late.”

  Putting her hands on her hips, she stared down at me, pointedly.

  As quickly as possible, I got up and moved. A cup of coffee waited for me, with three creams and five sweeteners, just how I liked it. Thanks, Lulu! After I gulped the caffeine, I crimsoned my lips.

  “Ready!” Grabbing our purses, we headed for the door.

  A big black bus with enormous tinted windows pulled up to the curb, and I was proud of Lulu for signing us up for a legitimate, organized tour.

  Travelling across the French countryside, we bounced along the uneven road until we arrived at the most outrageously over the top, gorgeous place I had ever seen.

  ***

  Versailles was built by the order of King Louis XIV, the “Sun King,” in the 1600’s. I remembered hearing in one of my classes about how it was a wonderful example of royalty going totally overboard, to show everyone just how royal they were.

  Stepping off the bus, we waited for our guide to bring us on the tour.

  In the group, there was another grandmother/granddaughter team. They were from Canada, and the grandmother used a cane. Her face was wide and powdery pale and her hair was short and spiky: she kind of resembled a spork. The girl was dressed in black, as I was—but she had impossibly fiery orange-red hair almost down to her waist in a mass of neat curls and a face covered in freckles. Her whole body, probably. I could see her thin, freckly arms sticking out of her sweater.

  I was hungry for conversation with someone who appeared to be my age, but the girl was so quiet that I didn’t even hear her name when she introduced herself. She is probably just shy. I concentrated on the sights instead.

  Our surroundings were so intensely lavish that they bordered on garish. I had never seen so much gold: the walls, the mirrors, the chandeliers, and the furniture were covered in it.

  Immediately, I understood Lulu’s sitting room. It was as if someone had transported one of the rooms from Palace Versailles to San Jose, California, and plopped it down into my grandparents’ house. The chandeliers, the furniture, the mirrors, they were all twins to the Christmas room. Smiling a secret smile, she studied everything intently.

  Delighted and obviously feeling right at home, she walked in those tiny white shoes—staring in every direction, all at once. I felt as though I was seeing a part of her which no one else had seen, a sense of awe and appreciation so complete that she was speechless.

  I could almost see ghosts of women with tall powdered wigs, holding roses in their cleavage to mask the smell of anti-hygiene. Perhaps my grandmother had lived a past life as one of those women...

  ***

  When the tour was finished, I needed to use the restroom, so I told Lulu I would meet her at the exit.

  While I was washing my hands, a twist of smoke rose above one of the stall doors—accompanied by the undeniable, identifiable smell of marijuana. The toilet flushed, and the door begin to open. I didn’t want to stare, but I had to see who had the cajones to smoke weed at the Palace Versailles.

  It would have been less of a surprise if The Easter Bunny had stepped out of the door. It was the shy girl from the other old lady/young lady pairing. She smirked at me and kicked the door shut with her foot.

  “What a bore, huh?” she had a low voice.

  Rummaging through a large, green, army messenger-style bag, she produced some breath spray. Two squirts seemed to satisfy her. I shrugged, mostly because I didn’t trust myself to speak

  “I heard you can find drugs here pretty easy? If you know where to look?” Her sentences all seemed to end with a question mark.

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I couldn’t meet her eyes, “I’m just looking for boots.”

  “Boots? Okay: do you wanna buy some grass?”

  How on earth had she gotten that onto the airplane? Or had she bought it here?

  Shaking my head, I felt my cheeks turn into the twin beacons of embarrassment which had become such a problem for me of late.

  “How about some beer?” She opened the bag enough for me to see two glass bottles floating around in a pile of personal items. Did she carry that stuff everywhere? I didn’t want a beer, but the sunglasses in there were pretty cute. I wondered if I should make an offer on them.

  Walking to the door seemed safer, so I said, “I better find my grandmother, or she’ll wonder what is taking me so long.”

  “Right? She might think you’re doing something naughty.” She laughed. At me, I was sure. How had I thought her shy? I left her preening in the mirror and exited the ladies room.

  Lulu was not there waiting for me.

  I tried not to panic, but the place had seven hundred rooms and over two thousand acres of property and what if I can’t find her? What would I tell my family? She was so small and defenseless. What if someone had taken her? Oh my God!

  Running down the enormous open hallway, looking left and right, I saw some smallish people—but they were all children. Damn, damn, damn! Why hadn’t she been waiting where I told her to be?

  I found myself standing in the Hall of Mirrors, which was really just that: a hall of mirrors. There were opulent chandeliers dripping from above, and colorful artwork adorned the ceiling. All I could see was the reflection of my face: wild, frightened eyes seated in a pale oval.

  Overwhelmed with chaotic emotion, my old friend, Telekinesis, took hold of the wheel, and I was nothing more than a passenger: the chandeliers began to sway as if under the influence of one of our California earthquakes. As I passed two of the mirrors, spider web cracks bloomed from the center outward. The people closest to me looked around in panic. I stopped where I was standing and took deep breaths, trying to calm down enough that my cerebrum could stop itself from getting me into terrible trouble.

  There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people milling around, the reflections multiplying the number. I saw dozens of Japanese tourists and a crazy looking twenty-year-old American with greasy bangs and red, red lips several times.

  Not one vertically challenged woman with white hair and dark glasses.

  Crap!

  A docent and two security guards had arrived at the broken mirrors, looking around for clues as to what had happened. I had to get away from there, fast!

  Then I remembered what my grandfather had always told me when I was a little girl. “If you get lost, don’t go wa
ndering around. Stay put.” Good advice. Better to have at least one half of a separated pair remaining stationary than two people running away from each other for who knows how long?

  I returned to the restroom, and there she was, holding a paper cup and laughing with the Canadian elder. The dope peddler was there, too. One side of her mouth lifted noticeably into a smirk when she caught view of my worried, crazed appearance.

  Perspiration was gathering pretty much everywhere, and my lips felt dry.

  “Where in the world were you?” my grandmother demanded.

  “I couldn’t find you—"

  “Couldn’t find me? I was right here. Well, most of the time. Ginny here offered me some of her water. She carries an extra cup with her. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  Spork-Ginny beamed at me and leaned on her cane.

  “You should be careful, Frank,” her granddaughter said, pronouncing my name like the French currency and emphasizing the ending consonant. "There are all kinds of un-savory types in places like this?”

  I wanted to punch her in her too-freckled face.

  ***

  When it was time to return to the hotel, I could tell that Lulu would have preferred to remain at the palace. Forever, probably. I helped her up the steps onto the bus, and we sat in silence for the duration of the return trip.

  Her eyes closed, and she began to breathe deep, even breaths. I knew that she was dreaming of gilded furniture and marble tiles.

  Parting ways with Ginny and her evil grandchild when the ride finally ended was a relief. They had been seated behind us, and it felt like someone was staring at the back of my head for the whole of our return. Someone with red, curly hair. A demented version of Annie, that orphan that still thinks the sun’ll come up tomorrow.

  ***

  We rested in the hotel for a while that afternoon. I tried to watch some television, but it took too much concentration to follow along. So I sketched instead. My drawing started out as one of the ladies with giant eyes that I like to draw, but soon morphed into Ginny's ginger granddaughter. I was not amused. The page balled itself up and flew into the waste basket.

  Dinnertime arrived, and both hungry and curious about the Latin Quarter, we walked a short distance and found eclectic crowds, street performers, and lots of food.

  The smells were amazing! They made me think of old cartoons where the colored vapors of scent carried the characters along. I could feel the pull! My stomach growled and I looked for something safe to try. An ice cream shop and a tiny falafel stand were situated next to each other, just within view.

  Lulu chose a chocolate-covered vanilla ice cream bar, and I tried the falafel. The first bite made my eyes close in pleasure; I could taste lettuce, tomato, salt and pepper. Middle Eastern flavors that I couldn’t name filled my senses and my belly.

  A breeze twisted through the avenues and alleyways, for the first time since we had arrived, and the sun felt wonderful instead of hot and stifling. We were sitting on a curb, our legs outstretched, enjoying our meal.

  French students engaged in some sort of artistic comedy production in the middle of the street, sporting colorful wigs and using big physical movements to emphasize their words. I was able to follow most of what they were saying and laughed in the right spots. Lulu asked me to translate, and I did the best that I could.

  Then I saw him.

  He was so full of energy that sparks seemed to fly from his skin, which I could actually see a lot of, because he was not wearing a shirt. In fact, the only item of clothing he was wearing was a pair of cut off denim shorts. They were unevenly cut and frayed from too many washings. A brown leather belt encircled his waist, a huge copper belt buckle holding it closed. Hanging around his neck was a gold medallion, and his feet were encased in huge hiking boots over thick grey socks. The color of the socks matched his plentiful chest hair and the beard trailing down from his chin, which was almost as wide as it was long. I could see that he was missing three teeth (two on top and one on the bottom) because his smile was gigantic and genuine. Very little hair graced the top of his head, so the skin of his scalp was pink from too much sun. Above his ears was long fuzz that resembled the hair on his face. He kind of looked homeless, or maybe just completely insane. Slowly circling the performers, he clapped his hands.

  “Bravo!” he shouted and stomped his huge feet.

  Then he looked in our direction.

  My back straightened, and I stopped chewing. Everyone’s eyes followed him as he was walking toward us. Gesturing to me, he told me to stand up. Not sure why I followed his instructions, I stood in a daze—leaving the last two bites of falafel in my napkin, on the curb.

  “Italiano, non?” he asked, studying my face with eyes that were blue and slightly rheumy.

  “Non,” I replied, unable to tear my eyes away from his wild visage, “American.”

  “Heyhey!” he cheered. Smelling like sweat and old man cologne, he kissed my cheek.

  My eyes grew huge, and I couldn’t move. The people around us clapped and whistled.

  When he saw Lulu, he covered his heart with one hand and put his other palm up, so that she could grab onto it. Lifting her to her feet, he studied her appreciatively.

  “Très belle!” he cried, kissing his thumb and forefinger, which were pinched together. He lead her in a circle, as if to show her to the crowd, who continued to whistle and applaud.

  Putting his arm around her back, he dipped her like a ballroom dancer and planted a very loud kiss on her lips.

  They looked like the cover of a fetish romance novel. I wasn’t sure if I should slap him, tell him to go away, try to use my gift to pull his hair, or scream. I couldn’t do any of those things, so I just stood there, stunned: so did my grandmother.

  Then he walked away. It felt almost as if he had never been there at all.

  We looked at each other, then sat down. I turned my attention back to my dinner.

  “Well,” Lulu managed.

  “Mmhmm,” I chewed and swallowed.

  If cell phones with cameras had been common then, there is no doubt that the whole episode would have ended up on the Internet, faster than you could say, "YouTube."

  ***

  When we returned to our hotel, we discussed what we would do the following day. Lulu felt that we should visit the Champs-Élysées.

  I looked forward to shopping and having a nice lunch, realizing that since arriving in Paris, I had eaten: bread, more bread, an American hamburger, and a falafel. Some genuine French cuisine was in order!

  Sleep eluded me that night, and when I finally drifted off, I had strange dreams. I saw myself in the fuzzy man’s arms, being dipped and kissed in front of the crowd. When he pulled me up, it was my sweet Rich, and he wiggled his eyebrows at me.

  6

  Champs-Élysées

  What does one wear to shop on one of the most famous streets in the world? A street for which a song was written?

  I guess there are lots of streets like that, but this one was within reach, and I was going to walk on it. And shop. I wanted to visit all the most famous shops and act like I belonged there, even though I probably couldn’t even afford to purchase a keychain at one of those places.

  When I woke the next morning, I knew that we were going to have a fabulous day. I could just feel it. Dressing head to toe in black, I was ready: black “baby tee,” black strappy dress, and even black tights. I should have left the tights at the hotel, but I wanted so badly to be chic.

  Lacing up my boots and applying my lipstick, I was ready to stroll.

  I was prepared to be a super-tourist!

  ***

  Lulu had purchased tickets to the one of Paris’s most famous musical reviews, The Lido, for that evening. The only thing I knew about the show was that the women performed topless. And I could not wait to see partially nude women dancing onstage while sitting with my grandmother. I was sure that it was going to be such a comfortable experience. Not.

  She dressed in one of h
er uniforms, and put on the white flats. Then she pulled out a bag. It sort of looked like a purse, I thought, but it was all flat and squished from being in her suitcase.

  “What,” I asked, “is that?”

  “This is the purse that I’m going to use today.”

  “Why are you switching to a different purse today, Lulu?”

  “Because it is made out of alligator.”

  I wasn’t aware that it was “bring an alligator bag to the Champs” day in Paris. I needed to know more. She must have understood because she explained.

  “I bought this purse here many, many years ago. It was a very expensive bag. I wanted to see if they still had bags like this one and how much they are selling for now.”

  Dumping out her current purse, she started filling up the ancient, worn specimen. Lipsticks, pens, keys, wallet, little snack bags from the airplane, mints—loose mostly, having fallen out of the foil roll: everything made the transfer.

  The strap was fuzzy with threads that were strained from use and unraveling and at first glance, I couldn’t tell if it was black or greenish. The thing didn't really have a form, and all of its contents sagged at the bottom, creating a lumpy-shaped weight.

  I sat on my bed while she worked away, and I could tell that it was already hot outside. Our little streak of sunlight reached through the window, feeling warm on my forearm.

  How I wished Alicia were with me. I would make her at least try some escargots, even though I hadn’t even glimpsed one yet. We could dress alike and act like we lived on the Champs-Élysées. No, like we owned the damned street. We could make up stories about the people around us and maybe act just a little snobby while ordering café au lait and gossiping about life back home.

  I missed her. I still needed to buy something that looked French for her, I reminded myself.

  ***

  After we consumed our continental breakfast, we headed to the Metro station. It was already humid, and my feet were sweating inside of my Docs. Why couldn’t I have packed some sandals or some flip-flops? And why on earth had I decided to wear tights?