What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  When he rolled back I pretended to sleep, but he didn’t even pretend. He just lay there with me in his arms and her on his mind.

  Beneath our bed there is a suitcase where we keep the things we will sell. He tossed her phone in with all the others. He did it in an obvious way; a show to prove she meant nothing. But I know Julien as well as he knows me. We are two of a kind. He plans to wait until I am no longer watching and then he will take back her phone, perhaps return it so he can again see her. I can’t let that happen.

  I am faster than he is and possibly more clever. When he looks for those things, he won’t find them.

  Last night believing me asleep, he went to the bathroom and in those few moments I grabbed her phone from the suitcase and shoved it between the mattress and spring of our bed. The wallet is already gone. Before we were halfway home I removed the cash and dropped it in a trashcan. When there is an opportunity I will get rid of the phone also. I will take it down to the quay and heave it into the middle of the Seine.

  He will look for it; I know he will. I saw the longing in his eyes. He wants her so he will do something to please her, just as he makes love to please me.

  When he discovers the phone is not there, he will know I have taken it. But he will say nothing, because to question its absence is to admit he has gone looking for it. This is the pretend world we exist in.

  Nothing is really ours. Not the wallets and phones in the suitcase, not the names we use, not even the words of love that pass between us.

  It is all stolen. Everything in this apartment belongs to someone else. This is true even of Julien. He is not mine; he belongs to someone else.

  The Traveler’s Tea

  It is after midnight when Max arrives back at the hotel and climbs into bed. She is weary, but given the mix of thoughts running through her head it is impossible to find sleep. For over an hour she tosses and turns lying first on her right side and then her left, scrunching the pillow into a ball then flattening it. Nothing works. Finally she fluffs the pillow, drops her head onto it and lies on her back staring up at the ceiling.

  The window is cracked open ever so slightly, a narrow slit that allows the cool night air to drift in. With it come the sounds of the street: the grumble of motorbikes, the bark of a dog, bits of conversation, footsteps. These sounds never change; even now they are as they were then.

  It matters not whether her eyes are open or closed, she still sees Julien with tears in his eyes. It was obvious he remembered. But if so, then why did he not come tonight? Did she misread his intent of the café? But if not the Café du Marche then where? Perhaps one of the small cafés on Boulevard Saint Germain? Or the dimly lit restaurant on Grenelle? They’d had good times in every one of those places, but was one more meaningful to him? Did he have a special connection to another café and she’d simply failed to see it? She has seen Julien and he has recognized her, but still there are only questions. The answers are as elusive as Julien himself.

  She thinks back to the day they parted. It was with the promise that Julien would soon follow. Walking through the airport complex he’d tightened his arm around her, and she’d felt the hardness of his hipbone nestled into the fleshiness of her waist. He held her close until that last moment when she’d stepped into the security clearance line. Before she moved to the line he’d pulled her body into his, and she’d felt the rapid beat of his heart. Even now she can feel the warmth of his breath in her ear as he whispered his words of love.

  It was a long goodbye; long and painful.

  Although leaving him was like leaving an arm or leg behind, she’d responded with a light-hearted laugh.

  “It won’t be long,” she’d said. And at the time she’d believed it.

  When there was no email, no text, no phone call, not even a response to the letters she’d sent, she held on to her belief that in time he would come. At night when loneliness covered her like a blanket of ice, she drew on the memory of how he’d stayed and watched long after she’d passed through the security line. When she turned off toward Gate 133 he was still standing there, and even though he appeared as little more than a speck she’d seen him raise his arm and wave one last goodbye.

  Can a moment such as that ever be forgotten?

  This morning Julien had made no mention of any of these things; he’d said only, “I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry. Such a meaningless statement.

  Max closes her eyes and remembers how her daddy spoke the exact same words the day he packed his suitcase and walked out. Like Julien he’d given no explanation, only a feeble “I’m sorry.” He made no mention of Doreen or the baby she’d borne him. He’d given no comfort to her mama when she collapsed into a crumpled heap of tears. He’d said nothing about moving to another state where he’d see Max once a year. Maybe. And not every year.

  It is the wee hours of morning when the sounds of the street fade away and Max’s exhaustion takes over. Sleep comes but it is fitful, fraught with images that are mixed up and out of place. Mama, Daddy, Julien, Doreen, the waif, Celeste, the Café du Marche waiter. At times she is a teenager; then it is yesterday and she is on the ground with milkshake covering her face. Angry expressions come and go; they move from one person to another. None of it makes sense. There is no story, just faces, twisted and cut into zigzag shapes like mismatched pieces of different puzzles.

  ~ ~ ~

  Although she has slept only a few hours, Max is awake at first light. She has much to do this day, and none of it particularly pleasant.

  She does one last search of the room, hoping perhaps her wallet and phone have fallen to the floor of the closet or behind the headboard. After she has poked in every last corner and checked the drawers, she empties her tote bag onto the bed and searches through the clutter one last time. Still nothing. Although there is no logic to it, she checks the pockets of her jacket, jeans and trousers. In the end the only thing she comes up with is another five-euro coin and the business card Claude Barrington gave her on the plane. She places the card on the nightstand then wearily trudges in to shower and start the day.

  Her first stop is at the hotel desk.

  “I’ve lost my wallet and phone,” she tells the clerk. “Could you check and see if perhaps someone has turned them in?”

  He pulls a large cardboard box from beneath the counter and begins to rummage through the contents. He lifts out a pair of glasses, a book, a scarf and a sweater.

  As he continues to search, Max says, “It’s an iPhone with a pink case. The wallet is pink also with a zipper pouch on top.”

  By then he has reached the bottom of the box. He ruefully shakes his head. “Sorry, mademoiselle. Your things are not here.”

  He suggests she check her room, and she replies that she has already done so.

  “Thoroughly,” she adds.

  When Max steps out onto the street the sky is as gray as she is feeling, but at least there is no rain. She starts walking, following the same path she took yesterday. She crosses the street in the same spot, hugs the buildings as she did before and heads for the Petit Pontoise. As she walks she keeps her eyes to the ground, looking left and right, stopping to check beneath the wastebasket at the corner of Rue Monge.

  The Petit Pontoise is considerably more crowded than yesterday. Despite the gray skies, there are even a few patrons sitting at the outdoor tables.

  Max goes inside and waits to speak to the owner. He carries a tray of coffees outside then returns to Max.

  “Oui, mademoiselle?”

  She again explains that she has lost her phone and wallet and was hoping perhaps someone had found them and turned them in.

  He shakes his head. “Non,” he says sympathetically.

  “Oh.” Max sighs, and the weight of her disappointment is palpable.

  “Please, sit, rest a moment,” he says and motions to a small table toward the back. “Let me bring you a coffee.”

  Max welcomes this slight bit of friendship. “No coffee, but I have a special tea
I’d like to drink. So if I might have a cup of boiling water…”

  “Oui, oui.” He pulls the chair out for her, and when she sits he scurries back to the kitchen.

  Once she is settled at the table, Max pulls the small box from her bag and opens it. Inside is the silver infuser and a chiffon bag of crushed leaves. Although she has no idea what is in this mix, she trusts Annie and believes in the magic of her teas.

  When the shop owner returns, he has a pot of steaming water and a plate with two small croissants.

  “No charge,” he says and sets them on the table.

  Using the small coffee spoon Max scoops a portion of the mix from the bag, fills the infuser, drops it into the cup and then pours the hot water over it.

  As she waits for the tea to steep, she catches the fragrance of something familiar. A flower perhaps? No, not a flower; something sweeter. Sugar cane maybe, but she has never been to a field of sugar cane so how could it be familiar? After six minutes, she lifts the infuser from the cup, sets it aside and takes a sip of the tea.

  She has added no sugar, yet it is sweet. Suddenly she feels hungry and less miserable. She finishes the first cup then brews a second. While she waits, she eats both croissants. They also have a certain sweetness to them.

  As she lingers over the second cup, Max glances out the front window and sees sunlight splashed across the sidewalk.

  The Memory Picture

  After the last drop of tea is gone Max dries the infuser, replaces it in the box and tucks it back into her bag. She leaves the bistro and continues following yesterday’s path. Carefully crossing on the same side of the bridge, she makes her way to the front entrance of Notre Dame. Inside she stops for a moment, dips her fingers in the holy water, then touches her hand to her forehead, chest and shoulders in a sign of the cross.

  There is only a scattering of people in the sanctuary, so she slides into the same pew she sat in yesterday. She leans forward, says a brief prayer and searches the floor in and around where she is sitting. She finds a two-euro coin lying on the floor and picks it up. There is no way of knowing who it belongs to, so she pockets it.

  When she leaves the cathedral the day has grown warm, and the sun is full and bright. Turning onto Quai Tournelle, she feels a nervous flutter pass through her stomach. She slows her steps as she walks the next three blocks. Once she reaches the spot where it happened, she stands perfectly still and tries to recreate the image of all that took place.

  She pictures the boy. He is on a skateboard, a yellow skateboard. She moves from the center of the walkway and stands alongside the stone wall. Again she calls to mind the image of yesterday. This time there are passersby wrapped in ponchos and hooded raincoats. Despite the gray drizzle that clouded the air, it is now easier to envision the boy. He is older than she thought. A small man, not a boy. He zigs left and pushes off speeding up as he races toward her. As he lifts his arm to throw the milkshake, she sees his face.

  It is familiar. Someone she knows or has seen somewhere before. A student from the university? She pictures him sitting in the lecture hall or at a table in the library, but neither is right. Then it comes to her. She can see him laughing and climbing astride a motorcycle. He is a friend of Julien.

  Max gasps. “Oh my God!”

  The words of the waiter come back to her. One of them creates a diversion, and his accomplice picks your pocket or steals your bag.

  The images are now vivid and real. She feels Julien’s arms lift her and sees the girl pick up her bag and hook it over her arm. Max remembers the look of surprise on Julien’s face, and she grows teary. Her legs start to tremble and her heart begins beating fast, too fast.

  Bracing herself against the wall, she turns away and looks down at the Seine as a riverboat passes by. Taking deep breaths, she waits for her heart to calm itself. A steady stream of tears rolls down her face as she comes to realize the truth of what happened. They were working together: Julien, the man on the skateboard and the girl. It was no accident. It was planned. To Julien she was just another unsuspecting tourist until he looked into her face.

  It is the red scarf all over again. The scarf was never truly a gift of love; it was Julien’s way of proving he is clever enough to take what he wants from life. He is a man who gives nothing; he only takes. There is no other way to say it; he is a thief.

  Fool…believe their lies, and you will fall in love with another one who is just like your daddy!

  Max pulls a tissue from her bag and dries her eyes.

  “No, Mama, I won’t,” she mumbles resolutely. She pulls the scarf from her throat and drops it into a trashcan. It flutters down, but one corner catches on the rim of the can and hangs there. It is like her love, a thing that doesn’t know how to let go.

  ~ ~ ~

  For the better part of an hour Max remains there looking down at the river, watching boats pass by and trying to piece together her memories of Paris.

  So much happened that year. It wasn’t just Julien. He came in the winter, but in those few months before him she’d learned to love the city. She’d delighted in studying the old buildings and sitting in front of a single painting for hours on end. She’d walked through the museums and monuments of the Invalides until she could hear the decades-old scratching of pens as wounded soldiers wrote letters to their sweethearts. At the Sainte Genevieve Library she’d discovered an ability to hear the whispered secrets of books and feel the wisdom of years in their yellowed pages. She’d tasted chocolate so sweet it lingered on her tongue for hours and drank wine that made her senses reel. Then she met Julien.

  He was a figure so commanding he filled her vision, blocked out everything else and caused her to lose sight of the things she loved. He beckoned and she followed. Willingly. Blindly. Foolishly.

  Max reminds herself that Paris was Paris when there was no Julien. To rid herself of his memory, she has only to rediscover what came before him.

  She will find those memories and will not allow herself to die of a broken heart as her mama did. But first there are things she must do.

  ~ ~ ~

  Max pushes through the heavy glass door, crosses the room and steps to the window.

  “I’d like to report a robbery,” she says.

  The uniformed officer looks up and asks, “Anyone injured?”

  She hesitates a moment then shakes her head. “No,” she answers, but this is somewhat of a lie. She is injured; just not in a way that is visible.

  “You’ll have to file a report,” the officer says. “English or French?”

  “English,” Max replies.

  He pulls a complaint form from his desk and hands it to her. “You can do it over there.” He points to the counter on the far wall.

  It is a double-sided form with questions about where, when and how the robbery occurred. She answers these questions then adds a detailed description of the three people involved: Julien, the girl and the man on the skateboard.

  After looking her answers over one last time, she returns to the counter and hands the officer the form.

  “Merci.” He gives a nod as if to dismiss her, and without even glancing at the report he places it in a tray with several others.

  “That’s it?” Max says. “That’s all you’re going to do?”

  “The theft will be reported,” he says. “Standard procedure.”

  “Isn’t someone going to try to find and arrest them?”

  “If we apprehend them with your possessions, yes, we will arrest them. But to find a pickpocket in Paris would take an army of men, and even then…” He rolls his eyes as if such a thought is inconceivable.

  “I’ll give you this one’s name!”

  Startled, the officer reaches over, retrieves Max’s report and reads through what she has written. “You know the man who threw the milkshake on you?”

  “Not him,” Max says, “the other one. The one with the girl.”

  The officer eyes her suspiciously. “And how exactly do you know this man?”


  “At one time we were friends, close friends…”

  “Ah, so then this alleged robbery is because of a lover’s quarrel?”

  Max notices that he now calls it an alleged robbery.

  “No,” she says indignantly. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in over three years.” She explains how the hood of her poncho was obscuring her face.

  “I’m positive he didn’t realize who I was until it was too late; his friend had already thrown the milkshake.”

  The officer gives a weary nod. “Okay, give me the name.”

  “Julien Marceau.”

  “Address?”

  Max shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  Again he rolls his eyes. “We’ll do what we can.”

  When Max leaves the station he again drops her report on the tray with the others.

  “A lover’s quarrel for sure,” he says with a groan and doesn’t bother to make note of the name she has given.

  Max

  I went to the police station because I thought I’d need a copy of the robbery report to get a replacement credit card. I never planned to give them Julien’s name; it just happened. When that policeman all but told me they were going to do nothing, I couldn’t stand the unfairness of it.

  Julien is a thief. He not only stole my wallet and phone, he stole three years of my life. Even if I could forgive him for stealing my wallet, I can’t forgive him for stealing those years. All he had to do was send an email and say we were a mistake. Yes, I would have been heartbroken, but I would have eventually gotten over it and moved on. Instead I believed in him. I believed something terrible had happened, something that prevented him from calling me or reaching out. Looking back I can see how totally stupid that was, but I didn’t see it then.