by Susan Wiggs
They savored every hour together. They talked about everything, and nothing at all—their hopes and worries. Music and movies, the progress of the soccer cup that was going on at the hippodrome, the places in the world they wanted to visit.
Everything struck them as funny, and they laughed even when there was nothing to laugh at. He reached across her for a cherry and ate it, and then gave one to her. The sight of the deep red cherry on her lips drove him crazy, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He leaned over and kissed her, a long, cherry-sweet kiss that excited him so much he felt dizzy. She kissed him back, her lips soft against his, her breath as gentle as the summer breeze.
Mason had made out with several girls before, but it had never been like this. When he finally took a break from kissing her, he couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “I’ve been wanting to do that all summer long,” he said.
“I know.” She lay back in the grass and smiled up at him.
“What do you mean, you know?”
“A girl can tell such things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She imitated his American accent.
“Can you tell what I want to do next?”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Show me.”
Oh, boy. He nearly floated away, as if he’d chugged an entire bottle of pastis.
And then he hovered over her supine form and kissed her again, more deeply this time, nearly drowning in sensation.
This was it, he realized, with some tiny part of his brain that could still think. This was what love felt like. They made out and whispered to each other with their lips still touching. They spoke in French and English, and then she said something in Algerian that sounded as sweet as birdsong.
He repeated it, and she laughed.
“No,” she said. “It goes like this.” And she stated the foreign words again.
He repeated after her. “How’s that?”
“Not bad, for a ferenghi.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to tell you.”
“Fine. I’ll just say it to your dad next time I see him.”
That made her howl with laughter. “Go ahead, but it might get you boxed on the ears.”
He pinned her wrists to the ground with his hands. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me.” He leaned down and kissed her lips, her eyes, her neck, where the spicy scent of her was warm and sweet. “I’ll torture it out of you.”
She laughed again, but softly this time. “All right, Mason. I’ll tell you.”
“Good. I’ve broken you under torture.” He kissed her for a long time, eliciting a sigh from her. Then he repeated the words and asked, “What does it mean?”
She gazed up at him with a look that melted his heart. “It means ‘I want you to be my first.’”
Oh, man.
“Seriously?”
“What do you think? Of course seriously. Have you done it before?”
It was tempting to say that he had, to make himself sound like a man of the world. But when he stared into her eyes, nothing but the truth came out.
“No,” he said. “Not ever.”
* * *
After the day in Fontainebleau, everything in the world was brighter and clearer and more delicious. Mason thought about Katia all the time—when he was supposed to be working, when his dad took him out to dinner, when he was in the shower or riding his bike around doing errands. It wasn’t like other crushes he’d had, like the time Lacey Jackson had worn a pirate wench costume that showed her great big boobs, or when Jenna Albertson slow danced with him in seventh grade and he developed a swift and humiliating boner. This was on another level entirely, like the difference between a wading pool and the ocean. He walked around with an ache in his chest that was so strong it hurt, but he wanted to feel it because it was so powerful.
And now they were going to go all the way.
“When?” he asked her. They were in the mail room together, organizing the correspondence.
“We will have to find a private place.”
They couldn’t use his dad’s place. His father’s schedule was unpredictable. He worked late a lot. Sometimes he didn’t come home until the middle of the night. Other times, he showed up at random times at the apartment.
Not her place, either. No way. Even though she laughed when he brought up all the torments her overprotective parents might devise, he didn’t want to tempt fate.
“A hotel?” he ventured.
“I suppose we could, but...” She looked around, lowered her voice. “I want to be with you the entire night.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“I have an idea,” she said, her eyes brightening, narrowing into arcs of amusement. It was cool how he could read her smile without even seeing her face.
“Tell me,” he said.
“There’s that trip we’re supposed to make up to The Hague, to observe a meeting at the UN. I will convince my parents that I should go on this trip with everyone else.”
Mason couldn’t breathe. He thought of holding her in an embrace like the lovers in the Kiss statue. He thought of being with her the entire night. The idea nearly made him explode. “Okay.”
Above the veil, her eyes softened into a smile. “Okay.”
* * *
Mason found condoms in his dad’s bathroom, in a drawer with shaving soap and cotton swabs and those little bottles of shampoo from hotels.
If he had paused to think—but of course all he could think about was Katia and getting laid—he might’ve thought it was weird for his dad to have condoms at all. Because after Ivy, Mom had had her tubes tied. At least he thought she had, it was so long ago. Maybe he was remembering it wrong.
None of that mattered, or even occurred to him, because his head was spinning.
He was jittery all through dinner with his dad. He tried to keep his leg from jiggling. He tried to keep the lie simple.
“Can I go away next week?” he asked.
“Away where?” His dad seemed distracted.
“The Hague. We’re invited to observe a meeting at the UN there. Some special committee...”
“And you’ll be supervised?”
Mason was prepared. He pushed a train schedule across the table. “We’re leaving on the twenty-fifth after work. And there’s a youth hostel right in The Hague where we’ll be staying. The last train is too late, so I’ll be gone two nights.”
His dad conceded without a fight. “Sure,” he said. “Sounds like a good time.”
Understatement.
“Stay out of trouble.”
“Dad.”
“Just saying. Take your time. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks, Dad. So, are you going to be okay without me?”
Dad still looked distracted. “What? Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll find something to do with myself.”
“Stay out of trouble,” Mason said, emulating his father’s voice.
His dad looked flustered for a second. Then he grinned. “Hey. That’s my line.” He took out his wallet, handed Mason an extra supply of francs. “Seriously, have fun up there. Keep your passport with you. You never know what could happen.”
You have no idea, Mason thought.
* * *
He practically ran to the meeting place at St. Michel. He was in a fine sweat of love. He couldn’t stop thinking about the night that awaited them at the end of the train trip. They would be alone, just the two of them, finally.
He wondered if Katia had had such an easy time getting away from her parents. He would find out soon enough.
The metro commuter crush seemed even more intense than usual. He watched the flow of pedestrians streaming down the stairs and along the labyrinthine passageway, past
a cacophony of performers and beggars and tourists. He and Katia had a regular meeting place at one of the subway entrances by the Brasserie St. Andre, but he hadn’t spotted her yet. They would take the RER up to the Gare du Nord, and from there, they’d catch the train to Holland.
He checked his watch. It was just after six. They’d arranged to meet at six. He started feeling jittery again, and he paced back and forth. Where was she?
He walked around the square, dodging students and tourists. In the distance, the cathedral of Notre Dame loomed, its blocky towers and curved buttresses silhouetted against the clear sky of the summer evening. He spied three of his friends from the group—Lisa Dorfman, who was talking and bossing people around as usual, Malcolm and Taye, who were ignoring her as usual.
“Our first junket,” Malcolm said, adjusting the strap of his red backpack. He nodded toward the metro entrance. “You coming?”
“I’m waiting for Katia,” said Mason.
“Oooh, Katia,” said Taye, fake-fanning himself.
“She’s not coming,” Lisa stated in her know-it-all way. “Her folks would never let her.”
Shit. Could Lisa be right? Malcolm scowled at her. “I’ll wait. See you at the Gare du Nord.”
“Fine, just remember our train’s at seven.” The three of them went down the stairs together.
Mason tracked a pair of gendarmes across the plaza. A woman walked past Mason, and the breeze snatched away her fluttery pink scarf. She didn’t seem to notice as she hurried toward the stairs. He picked it up and went after her. The pink fabric felt silky and fragile to the touch. “Excusez-moi, Madame,” he said. “Votre écharpe...”
She turned to him, her hand on the stair rail. “Merci, eh?” she said with a smile.
She was gorgeous, like, supermodel gorgeous, with shiny blond hair and long, slender legs. She was so beautiful, he felt a bit tongue-tied. “Je vous en prie,” he stammered.
Then she was gone, disappearing into the station, and he went back to scanning the area for Katia. She was no supermodel, but infinitely more attractive to him, because of the way he felt about her. Just when he started to worry she wouldn’t show up, he saw her coming up the tiny, high-walled Rue Suger. Just for a moment she seemed unstuck in time, her swathed figure against the sand-colored stone of the old mint. The veils covered her hair and neck, and only her face stood out, framed by the fabric like the face of a nun. She seemed oddly ephemeral, as though the breeze that had blown the pink scarf could sweep Katia away, too.
Then she spied him, lifting her arm in a wave. As she came toward him, dodging cycles and scooters, her overnight bag bouncing against her leg, he could see the moment when all her worries and hesitations dissolved. Relief lit her eyes.
Everything was going to be fine, he thought. It was going to be amazing. Or so he hoped. He suddenly wished he wasn’t such an amateur. At some point in the not-so-distant past, each of his parents had felt obliged to have “the talk” with him. Of course it had been awkward and uncomfortable and not all that helpful, but the gist of it was obvious. The key elements were safety, love and respect. It was not rocket science.
Parents didn’t get into the mechanics, yet that was what guys needed to know about. For that kind of advice, there were kids at school who liked to kiss and tell. Or kiss and lie. Mason had kept his ears tuned in. Chances were, the guys on his varsity crew team were no more savvy than he was, but maybe he had gleaned something useful from their locker-room chatter.
When Katia took his hand and he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss, he realized he already had all the information he needed.
“Give me a moment,” she said. “It’s hot under here.” With that, she pulled her black, long-sleeved tunic over her head and shoved it into the bag with her other things. “There, that’s better.”
“You look incredible,” he said, kissing her again. He wondered what the other interns would say when they saw her in Western garb.
“You’re sweet. Sorry I’m late, but there are plenty of trains at rush hour.” They would need to take the B line, a fast RER link between Charles de Gaulle and Gare du Nord.
They had reached the entrance to the northbound train when Mason heard a hoarse voice shouting Katia’s name and a string of words in Algerian.
He didn’t need to understand the language to know the two guys approaching them were pissed about something. They were dressed in blue workers’ coveralls and black caps.
“Merde,” said Katia, grabbing his hand. “Pretend we didn’t hear them.”
Mason felt a twinge of recognition. “Those are the guys we almost ran into in Belleville that day,” he said.
The two guys quickly caught up with them. Both started talking to her at once in harsh staccato imperatives. Mason understood some of the conversation, and the rest he could glean from their gestures. “Look at you. You’re a disgrace to the family.” They were referring to her lack of covering.
Then one of the guys yelled and gesticulated. Her face went pale, and she quickly turned to Mason. “I have to go back home.”
“What happened?”
“They said my father’s taken ill.”
“Oh, man.” Mason had nightmare visions of a heart attack, a stroke, a car accident. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
The two guys babbled at her. They were sweating, and the younger of the two was practically foaming at the mouth.
“I have to go,” she said.
“I’ll come with you.”
The older guy yammered something else.
“He’s on a scooter,” she said.
“Oh. Then...”
“I’m sorry,” she said in English as one of the guys grabbed her arm and yanked her away.
A sharp protective instinct rose up in Mason. He took a step forward. “Hey—”
“I’ll try to get to the Gare du Nord later.” Katia warned him away with a look.
One of the guys yammered something at Katia. Her eyes grew wide, and she got on the scooter. “Mason, I’ll see you later, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. I should come with—”
An elbow landed in his ribs and he was shoved to the ground. The air rushed out of him. Katia yelled something in her native tongue. The sound of the motor drowned out her words as the scooter sped away. The second guy took off on foot, walking fast at first—and then running.
It was only much later that Mason would wonder how the pair of them happened to be in the Place St. Michel that evening, and how they had managed to locate her.
He got up and brushed himself off. Now what? Should he bail on the trip or keep going? If there truly was something the matter with Katia’s father, then Mason wanted to be there for her, not that her family would allow him anywhere near her.
“Yo, Mason!”
He turned to see Taye coming toward him. He was with Lisa and Malcolm, the three of them geared up with backpacks.
“Ready to roll?” asked Lisa, giving an officious pat to the dorky passport pouch hanging around her neck.
“Where’s Katia?” Malcolm asked, looking around.
“She’s not going to make it, after all,” said Mason, his heart sinking.
“Whatever,” said Lisa. “Hey, hurry up so we can grab the next train.”
The three of them joined the flow of commuters down to the trains.
Undecided, exasperated, Mason swore between his teeth and then descended the stairs into the subway. Maybe Mr. Hamini’s illness would turn out to be nothing, and she would meet him and the others at the train station.
The metro stop was still ridiculously busy, the RER and metro lines crossing through the noisy underground labyrinth. The ripe smells of food, sweat, burnt air and a warm rubbery aroma filled the air. His grandpa George had once told him that smokin
g used to be permitted in the metro. Even though it wasn’t anymore, the place still smelled like smoke.
Mason was nearing the northbound platform when across the track, a southbound train pulled in, brakes grinding and gnashing. Craning his neck, he tried to spot the others. It was a typical weekday rush hour, nothing unusual going on. But then, a few seconds later, the tunnel erupted.
It started as a single beat from a bass drum. What the...? A vibration thundered through the tunnel like a runaway train. He felt as if the train had hit him, its impact hammering his gut and jaw. His back teeth felt rammed shut by some outside force. His bones rang from the blow of a sledgehammer being slammed down on him. A wave of pressure pummeled everything that was soft inside him.
Sharp-smelling smoke filled the station. There was a split-second pause, followed by a shock wave. Then a fireball formed, and a flare of wind sucked everything back toward the blast. He grabbed a railing that was hot to the touch, but he held on. Something hit him like a baseball bat in the back of his head while rocks and debris struck his face. A bright orange glow danced before his eyes. The air turned red with hot bits of flying metal.
Run. Run, don’t die here, run-don’t-die-here, run-don’t-die-here, run-don’t-die-here, rundontdiehere hammered through his mind. His ears felt as though skewers were being stabbed into them. He bit his tongue and felt the blood running hot and metallic-tasting down his gullet. His hearing was gone. Something was suffocating him; he felt a screaming in his throat but no sound came out. His pants were wet, not from blood but from piss.
Somehow he found his way to an exit jammed with openmouthed, horrified people emitting screams he couldn’t hear. There was a guy trying to drag himself up the stairs, but one foot seemed to be backward. Mason grabbed the guy’s arm and draped it over the back of his neck, helping him to the pavement. The guy fell like a sack of rocks. A gendarme rushed forward, his face veined by running blood, and bent to help, waving Mason away.
A woman nearby wandered about, acting as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he could read her lips. “I need to get to the train. I should get home.” She seemed completely unaware that most of her clothes had blown off, or that her face, bare stomach and breasts were covered in soot.
