Her mournful face was quickly starting to match her hair.
“What gives?” I asked. I should have been more sensitive, but I was too surprised to find my gentler side.
“I. Am. Having. A. Miserable. Time. InthisfreakingCOUNTRY!” She took deep breaths between most of her words.
For the first time since meeting her, I felt like we had something in common. I slid down next to her.
“Me too.”
“Huh?”
“I hate this country, too.”
A big hunk of frizzy hair hung over one of her eyes as she turned to look at me. At the moment, her face was so pink that you could hardly see all the freckles.
“Why do you hate it so much?”
“Well, for one thing, we almost got arrested earlier this morning.”
“No shit?”
“My grandmother tried to steal part of Napoleon’s tomb.”
She wasn’t fazed a bit.
“Mine tried to shoplift ten postcards from our hotel gift shop. She told them that she just forgot to pay, but I know better. She is a criminal.” Sort of like the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t you say? “She argued with my Auntie so much that she told us not to come back to her house. Ever. This was supposed to be some sort of big reunion. They haven’t spoken in over ten years. I don’t even remember what the original argument was about.”
After digging around in her giant bag, she produced a pack of gum. I gladly accepted a piece.
“When are you supposed to go home?” I took the green stick out of the foil and rolled it up. I couldn’t find a trashcan, so I tossed the wrapper into the metal smoking tray.
“Not for another three days. I think I’m going to lose my mind. Or murder my grandmother. Probably both?” She looked absolutely miserable.
“I can completely relate. Do you have any Valium in that purse?” I was half serious.
She shook her head.
“I keep thinking that this might be a bad dream. I hope it might get better, but it only keeps getting worse.”
“Hey,” I leaned into her with a little bump, “at least your grandmother didn’t try to pay someone to take you out on a date.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Unfortunately, no. It turned out alright, though.”
“How? Was he super hot or something?”
“Well, yeah, he is pretty hot, but he didn’t take me out. My grandmother ended up going with me. I'm still pretty pissed, though.”
“Yeah, that sucks. I wish mine would pay someone to take me out. I am sick to freaking death of talking to her. She criticizes everything I do.”
“Mine doesn’t criticize me too much, but ... she is certifiably bonkers. I am sure of it. She got drunk last night and passed out at a live show. That was after she asked our waiter to dump our bottle of two hundred dollar champagne.”
“Ho-lee crap!” She laughed out loud. It was a wonderful, unladylike laugh, ending in a strangled cough.
“Yeah. Never a dull moment. My boyfriend is going to die when he hears about this. I don’t think he’ll ever let me out of the country again.”
The devilish glint was back in her eye. She didn’t look quite so... fuchsia, anymore.
“Alright, we’d better get back to the old crones. They’ll think we’re up to no good?”
“No good? You mean like, stealing dirt or public drunkenness?”
She guffawed again and held the door open for me. I paused for a moment. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Dan. Or Dannie,” she said, “my real name is Daniella, but I hate it.”
Yep, we definitely have more in common than I originally thought.
“Where did you get those boots?” I asked.
“At the street market. I got them for a steal. You know you have to bargain with those people. They expect it.” She nodded her head vigorously.
“So I’ve heard.” Damn.
10
Ice Cold Paris
The Louvre was a bust. I didn’t appreciate the artwork, and I was mentally fried. After my chat with Red Psycho (I actually felt kind of awkward trying to hate her after our chat), Lulu and I half-heartedly looked at a few more famous pieces and then took the Metro back to the Hôtel de Lutèce.
Crawling back into the lobby, I was sweaty and dusty. The dust was purely incidental, not smuggled.
My hateful bangs were glued to my forehead, and I felt like a moron for wearing black tights and boots. I would have deeply appreciated a stiff drink and a soft bed.
The staff looked up at me and they all began speaking at once. I caught:
“Mon Dieu!”
“Votre Petit Ami—"
“CALL AMERICA NOW!”
Silence. Then they all started up again, all speaking at the same time.
Henri, who must have just begun his shift, pulled me aside. “You must call your boyfriend immediately.”
“Oh my God, is he alright? What has happened?” Panicking, I could actually feel adrenaline being released throughout my body.
“I sink he is alright, but you must phone him: he eez sreatening to come to Paree. He sinks you are très miserable. He says zat you left him a message and he wants to come to your rescue… ”
“Oh crap!” I remembered the distressed message which I left on my way out that morning. It seemed like a million years had passed, but it had happened only hours ago. He must be so worried!
“What is it?” Lulu asked.
“I-I have to call Rich."
“I’m sure it will all turn out. I’m going to our room to take a rest.” She was totally oblivious to the fretful energy bursting around her.
***
I pushed my way back out into the hot Parisian air and found someone else at the phone booth. The damned thing had been empty all week. Probably all year. And yet, there stood a boy who looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. I can appreciate his mood, but I need the stinking phone.
The booth's occupant was unusually thin and was wearing a pair of shorts, sans shirt. He had apparently brought a pair of yellow plastic flip-flops with him, but they had been discarded on the floor.
“Non!” He cried. I mean, he really cried. I watched, fascinated, as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Je t’aime!” he screamed, professing his love to the invisible person on the other side. “Je t’aime... ” He collapsed down the wall, much like Dan, a couple of hours ago.
Upon closer inspection, I realized that he was probably around my age. Looking at the phone as if it had wronged him, he began slamming it against the glass in desperation.
Oh, no! What if he breaks the stupid thing? The moment seemed terribly passionate, but I needed the handset and receiver to be fully functional.
“Uh, excusez-moi?”
I lightly tapped on the door with a mangled fingertip. No response.
“He-hello? Are you finished?”
The almost-nude man was sobbing quietly. Letting the phone drop from his hand, he curled his arms around his bare legs and dropped his head to his knees. The handset bounced along the floor of the phone booth. Except for the small shudders rippling through his narrow shoulders, he was still.
“Can I use the phone, please?”
Apparently he wasn’t going anywhere, any time soon. He lifted up an arm and let it drop to the floor.
“S’kay, you just stay right there.” I maneuvered into the booth. The only way for both of us to fit was for me to straddle his knees. If he were to lift his head, it would be inside my skirt. My tights would keep him from seeing anything I wanted kept secret. Besides, I was desperate!
For a horrible moment I couldn’t find my mom’s phone card. I held my bag up to my face and tried to be discreet, mind-moving the items in a quick shuffle inside. The card was tucked under some Kleenex.
I squatted and scooped up the phone, then dialed. The foreign connection seemed to take hours, but it didn’t even finish one ring before his mother answered.<
br />
“Goodgriefareyoualright?”
“I’m fine. Can I speak to Rich?”
“Uh... he isn’t here right now. He’s... at the airport.”
“Oh my God! He’s at the airport? No! How can I reach him?” Perspiration gathered under my hair.
“Try paging him. He is really, really worried. Pretty mad, too.”
“Oh, no... ”
“Hang up, for God’s sake! Try to reach him, or you’ll be seeing him in person. In about twelve hours, or so.”
“He can’t come here, damn it! He’ll kill me!” I didn’t say good-bye. I just slammed down the receiver and fumbled with the card again. It drifted into the boy’s lap, and he lifted it up to me, without raising his face.
“Crap! Crap! Crap!” I dialed Rich’s pager. Some bored caller had scratched off the first three numbers off of the booth, so I couldn’t enter the return number.
I was at a loss. If Rich flew to Paris to rescue me, things would get really complicated, fast.
Tears began to roll down my cheeks, the stress creeping up on me like a black fog. I tried to breathe, but my chest just heaved and wouldn’t allow enough air into my lungs. Great. My very first anxiety attack.
Sliding down the glass door, I ended up toe to toe with the skinny boy. I sobbed and wiped my nose on my wrist. A bony arm reached across the small space and offered a hand.
I grasped it, and we cried together.
***
How does one end up in a muggy, foreign phone booth holding hands with a half-naked, unusually thin stranger? I have no idea. It just happens, I guess.
***
We studied one another for two-thirds of a second. He was actually kind of handsome, when not engaged in a lover’s tantrum. A mysterious scar weaved through his right eyebrow, up into his shiny black hair—which was pretty spiky where it had been squeezed in his fist. He detached his hand from mine and snapped his fingers.
“You must call zee airport immediately.”
“Good idea. You’re right!” As our feet tried to untangle, I struggled to stand. He ended up standing first, pulling me to my feet. I was heavier than he, so it wasn’t as graceful of a movement as it could have been. Story of my life.
Holding the door open with his bare back, he gnawed on his thumbnail and gestured at me to hurry up.
I tried to find my itinerary—which Lulu had finally allowed me to hold, once we had begun our flight. The phone number for the airport was probably on it somewhere. Since I was being watched, I had to search manually. My bag had become stuffed with a bunch of tourist crap as our trip progressed. I began ripping various receipts and pamphlets out and letting them fall to the floor. How on earth did all that crud fit in my tiny bag? At the very bottom of the now empty purse sat a crumpled page. The number for the airport was on the top of it.
I dialed and reached a recording.
“If you would like to reserve a wheelchair for transport through the terminal, press one.”
Damn.
“If you would like to make a vegetarian selection for your flight, please dial your individual airline.”
Damn.
Operator! I needed an operator! I dialed “0.”
“SFO,” a nasally voice reported.
“Yes. Hi. I have an emergency!”
“If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.”
“Nonono! Not that kind of emergency! My boyfriend thinks I’m in trouble and is about to fly to France to rescue me!”
“This all sounds very romantic, but what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Don’t you have some sort of system for paging people? I know you do! I’ve heard it! Can’t you call him to an information desk? His name is Richard Cavelli. Customer service desk, or something?”
“I suppose we could try. How do I know that this is not some sort of a prank?”
“Please! This is not a joke! I am calling from Paris-freaking-France, and we have to stop him from getting on the plane! He doesn’t need to come here, and he will be so damned pissed at me if he flies out here for no reason!”
“Do you really have to use that sort of filthy language? Young ladies shouldn’t say words like “pissed.” It’s very unbecoming! And even when you say “freaking,” I know what you are really trying to say!”
Just my luck that I would find an ultraconservative person on the other end of the phone. She sounded just like my grandmother. We were running out of time!
“I am so sorry. I don’t usually use profanity, but I am really beginning to panic!” What a lie. I used to be someone who didn’t use profanity. How swiftly things can change!
“Oh, all right,” she blustered, as if I’d really put her out. “Please hold.” No problem. This would only be the most expensive phone call that I had ever made.
I looked at Slim. He raised up his arms in question, so I gave him a thumbs-up. He stopped munching on his thumbnail and switched to the left middle finger, inadvertently flipping me the bird.
The operator had not hung up the phone, so I could hear everything.
“Richard Cavelli. Please report to the information kiosk. Richard Cavelli. Please report to the information kiosk. Do not board your flight to France. I repeat: do not board your plane. Please report to the information kiosk.”
Now I was also chewing on a nail. It was my pinky nail. I could hear papers shuffling and someone in America stopping by to ask where the bathroom was. The operator heaved another great sigh before she gave directions. Then I heard his voice. Over miles of air and modern technology, I heard my favorite voice of all voices.
“I am Rich Cavelli. I just heard the announcement that I was to come here.”
“Oh, right. This is for you.”
“Rich? Oh, God—Richie!”
“Frankie? What is going on?” He sounded so confused!
“Don’t get on that airplane! I’m alright!”
“What do you mean, you are alright? Did you hear yourself leaving that message?”
“I’m so sorry. I can explain it all later. Lulu is just... she’s not easy to travel with. I’m having a little bit of a rough time. But I’m figuring it out. You don’t need to come here. I swear. Although I love you more than ever for planning on it.”
“If you’re sure... ”
The grumpy operator could be heard in the background, urging him to wrap up the conversation.
“I am sure. Absolutely sure. Just... don’t let me travel with her again, okay?”
“Francis ... ”
“Really. I will see you in a few days. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Please call me tomorrow. I have to know that you are alright.”
“You got it! Oh, and tell your mom that I’m sorry that I didn’t say good-bye.”
“Will do.”
I could hear the operator say, “Are you almost finished?”
“I have to go.”
“I know. I love you, Richard Cavelli.”
“I love you, too, Frankie. Good bye.”
“Au revoir.” The line went dead.
***
An anxiety attack apparently takes a lot out of a person. I was pooped.
“Mon amie?” my new friend asked, reminding me that he was there.
“Oui?”
“Giiirrrl, you need a haircut.” I had not expected him to say that.
“I—I do?”
“Uh-huh. Now zat zee drama is over, you have to follow moi.”
Is this the dreaded kidnapper? Don’t human traffickers wear clothes in France? He must have recognized my reluctance to follow him because he laughed and pointed up the street.
“I work at zee salon, right zere. I weel cut your hair. I am not expohnseeve. I weel make you feel belle.” I loved the way that he said “sa-lohn.”
What do I have to lose? I could really use some pampering about now and Lulu is probably asleep.
“I am Pierre. And you—?”
Wow. A real life Pierre. How much... Frenche
r... could you get?
“Je m’appelle Frank.” A dimple popped out from under his right cheek when he smiled at my use of his language. The usual questioning eyebrow lifted at the introduction of my name.
“Well, Franc." He pronounced my name the same as his native money. I was beginning to get used to that, "You are about to get a real French haircut!”
***
After the events of my day, I almost didn't care if he was scamming me. However, it was comforting to enter through the doors of an actual salon.
“Pierre!” someone called. It was a woman with frizzy grey hair and a cigarette sticking out of the side of her mouth. She rattled off some French, and I was able to pick out “lover’s quarrel” —and that she was teasing him about it.
Pierre leaned close to my ear. “Zat one. She eez a beetch.” I figured he wasn’t talking about the sands of Santa Cruz.
Pumping a foot pedal to raise my seat, he snapped a black cape around my neck and turned me until I was facing the mirror.
“I sink we need to come up here and leave zees here.” He wanted to give me an A-line haircut. Sounded bien.
“What do you want to do wiz zees bangs?”
“I was going to grow them out.”
The shapely eyebrow raised, and his lips were doing that French thing. “Non.” He wagged his finger at me and began to work.
The woman stylist sounded like she was coughing up a lung. Or a small animal. After styling the man in front of her, she waddled behind a curtain.
“I hate her. She eez horrible. Someday, I will open my own shop.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Oui.” Pierre took a short sleeved, black button up shirt from a coat rack near his station and put it on. He flipped up the collar and added a black leather utility belt with pockets for his tools.
Trying to smooth his tangled locks, he caught his own reflection in the mirror. “Look at zis mess, non?” Tears were still hiding in his voice.
“Are you okay?”
He paused for a moment, but didn’t make eye contact with me. “Ah, oui. Just a leetle argument. My boyfriend—he is angry weez me for somesing stupid. I am too sohnsiteeve, sometimes.”
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