Paris Ever After: A Novel

by K. S. R. Burns

  “In this case the movement would be infinitesimal. Impossible to measure,” he was saying. Then his phone rang, and he dropped my hand. “I should take this,” he said, holding up the phone to show Robert’s face grinning from the touchscreen. Work. It’s never far from William’s mind. Even in San Francisco he took work calls. “Hey,” he said into the phone, standing up. “Yeah. Uh-huh.”

  I was planning to just wait when he pantomimed to me to call him later, using a two-fingered “Call me” gesture like a character out of Sex and the City. I’ve never seen William do that before—it’s the kind of cutesy thing he scorns—but today he pulled it off like a pro. It took a little of the sting out of being dismissed. I giggled, he grinned back, and I felt life was full of promise. Possibility.

  “Vraiment?” Manu says now. Really?

  I reach for the golden Godiva box. A couple more chocolates, then I’ll take a bath. It’s not like I’m contributing anything to the conversation. Afterwards, maybe I’ll even have a nap. Then I’ll call William, as he said I should, and set up our next meeting.

  For tomorrow. Not tonight. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. William’s behavior has careened from surly to charming to mysterious to enticing to reassuring. I owe it to Catherine, and to myself, to take the time to consider everything carefully. No more harebrained moves for me.

  I’m popping a chocolate into my mouth when Sophie lifts the skirt of her white dress to reveal a long red scar curving across the top of one milky thigh.

  “Goodness gracious!” Margaret’s face turns greasepaint white, and she leaps to her feet. I reach out, worried she’s headed for a relapse of yesterday’s craziness. But before I can steady her, she sits down and again gathers Sophie’s hands between her own. Both she and Manu listen intently to what I assume is the story, which looks pretty shocking. Of this account I glean but a single word, “couteau”—knife. And only because Sophie repeats it five times. Also, it kind of goes with the topic of scar.

  After a few minutes Manu gets up to crouch beside my chair.

  “Do you remember when I told you Sophie said she was kidnapped?” he whispers to me. I nod, unable to take my eyes from Margaret’s pale face. “Evidently, that was not the whole story. She tells us it started with a man she met at university. He was from Morocco. They fell in love, she says. It was an amour fou.”

  I glance at him and nod again. Amour fou means crazy love. Listening to Hervé has given me the impression that, for the French, “crazy” love is the best kind. When it comes to affairs of the heart (he likes to explain with a world-weary shrug), we must accept we are irrational beings. Infidelity is inevitable. Permanency is not paramount. What matters most is our experience of a mad romantic passion, to be fully enjoyed in the moment and looked back upon with fondness. It sounds a little frivolous, and I could be generalizing here. Perhaps only barons think this way. I have no personal experience with French romance because I’ve never stuck my toe in French dating waters. And it doesn’t look as if I’ll ever need to.

  Manu, still kneeling beside me, continues his explanation. “This man, he take—he took her to his home. In a small village in Maroc. They move in with his mother. And then he—I mean his caractère—it changed completely, she tells us. He wanted her to be a traditional woman. A wife.”

  I study Sophie’s scar. It has a hook on one end, like a candy cane, and goes from her knee almost to her hip. Her tale of captivity is bizarre and melodramatic, but something about it feels familiar to me. Not because I’ve ever been carried off to Morocco by a medieval-minded male. Or, um, stabbed.

  But I do know the sickening sense of the rug being pulled out from under you, as the universe suddenly shows itself for the capricious jokester it really is. I do know what it’s like to be on the losing side, having lost both my parents and my best friend. A wave of empathy washes over me as Margaret pulls the white dress over the red scar and enfolds Sophie into her arms, crooning softly.

  “He took her passport,” adds Manu. “He did not allow her to use a telephone or to mail a letter. The mother, she watched Sophie all the time.” He shifts his weight from his left knee to his right. “When this man was obliged to take her to the hospital for her injury, she was able to—what is the word—échapper?”

  “Escape,” I translate, surprised I know the word.

  “Merci. At the hospital she found transport with refugees and was able to cross into Europe at Gibraltar. It took many hours.”

  Well, that would explain why she looked so dirty and bedraggled when she got back. “She escaped from her husband,” I say more to myself than to Manu.

  “Oui,” he agrees, but then holds up a hand. “Er—non. Perhaps not indeed her ‘husband.’ She says the mariage may not have been correct. Not official.” He frowns and tilts his head. “Quelle histoire, n’est-ce pas?”

  His eyes are sparkling. Yes, it’s quite a story. I picture Sophie bumping along in the back of a truck, using that filthy daypack for a pillow, subsisting on the dry crusts of discarded sandwiches.

  I shrug. “Sounds like the plot of a made-for-TV movie.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean—lured into a sham marriage? Held captive in Morocco for two years? Do you believe all this?”

  Manu squints at me, and it’s clear he does indeed believe all this. William wouldn’t, not in a million years. Even Kat would have her doubts, and she normally always sided with the woman.

  And yet—while browsing through Paris bookstores I’ve run across numerous novels, memoirs, and even comic books recounting similar narratives of modern-day abductions. It seems to be a popular storyline. We may never really know if it happened or if Sophie just made up a tale she knew couldn’t be verified.

  Or, rather, a tale her mother wouldn’t choose to verify.

  Because I’m sure Margaret will never go to the police to seek justice for Sophie’s wrongful imprisonment. She’ll want to cover it up and forget about the whole thing. She’ll want to go back to a “normal” life as soon as possible. Manu will naturally bow to Margaret’s wishes. And to Sophie’s. Even now he’s left me to kneel at her feet and gaze up at her with troubled blue eyes as she sobs on Margaret’s shoulder.

  The teakettle starts to sing. I didn’t even know it had been put on. When no one takes notice, I get up to make the tea and bring it out to the sitting room. I place the tray on the hammered copper side table beside Margaret’s chair. She looks up at me and mouths, “Thank you” but doesn’t relinquish her embrace of Sophie. Nor does Manu budge from his post at Sophie’s feet. I stand off to the side for a minute, looking down at the three of them.

  Who am I trying to kid? Margaret and Manu and Sophie belong to each other, belong to Paris, in a way I never will. Or could.

  I turn my back and retreat to the room-that-is-no-longer-my-room. More than anything, I need a nap. But I don’t lie down. Even though I slept here just last night, the bed—like the whole room, the whole apartment—feels remote, indifferent, empty, foreign. Nothing here belongs to me.

  Or at least very little. The majority of my clothes are in my carry-on, and that’s still over at Hervé’s. Here, only the few maternity items hanging in the armoire, the two pairs of shoes peeking out from under the bed, my underwear, and half a dozen English-language novels picked up at flea markets and secondhand shops are really mine.

  Which is good, because at this point in my life I need to be easily portable.

  “Aimée?”

  Manu is in the doorway. His face is the color of chalk, and the corners of his eyes droop. Poor guy. While I was out wandering Paris with William, lunching on salmon with sorrel sauce and learning about Foucault’s pendulum, Manu was here dealing with Margaret and Sophie.

  “Margaret seems to be doing a lot better,” I remark as he silently stands there.

  “Yes. She slept till past noon o’clock.”

  “Good. Does she remember yesterday?”

  “I think no. When she woke she asked
for Sophie. We will take her to the doctor on Monday.”

  That’s soon enough. It’s already late Saturday afternoon. “Well, I’m glad she’s doing so well.”

  He takes a half step into the room. “Would you—do you mind to stay chez moi tonight? Margaret desires to have Sophie here with her.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  He smiles at me. “Merci.” He hasn’t asked about my day with William. But my relationship with William has got to be the last thing on Manu’s mind right now. “It won’t take me long to pack my stuff,” I mumble, reaching to pull the maternity tops from their hangers.

  Fifteen minutes later, my clothes and shoes are stuffed into two shopping bags. Toiletries and vitamins fill my trusty tote. The money belt is strapped around my ever-expanding waist. I leave the novels behind. Who knows—they might help Sophie improve her English. Not that Sophie strikes me as the bookish type; she seems more like the shop-till-she-drops-and-then-go-for-mani-pedis type. She certainly could use a mani-pedi. I bet Margaret has noticed the same thing and has already made appointments for them both.

  I’m careful to not take anything I didn’t bring from Phoenix or buy here in Paris. The diamond bangle bracelet, the butter-soft leather jacket, the blue-and-white-striped silk dressing gown and its matching nightie, the Waterford crystal clock—they all stay here where they belong. Besides, I don’t need silks and diamonds. I like them, sure. But I don’t need them.

  My last act is to fold up Hervé’s red Christian Dior tunic, wrap it in tissue paper, and lay it on top of my clothes in one of the shopping bags. I’ll return it to Hervé when I go over there to get my carry-on. Funny. He hasn’t called me, or Margaret, since yesterday morning. But that’s Hervé. You see him, then you don’t. You never find out what he was doing in the interim.

  When I reenter the sitting room, carrying my worldly goods, Manu is perched on the arm of my empty chair. Sophie and Margaret are sitting side by side on the loveseat with their arms looped around each other’s waists and their cheeks almost touching. I can’t help admiring the scene. Margaret has her beloved daughter back at her side, which is a good thing.

  She looks up. “Ah. Amy dear. Thank you, darling, for being so understanding. It’s just for tonight. We’ll get everything sorted tomorrow.”

  “Sorted?” I look at Manu, then back to Margaret, before remembering Margaret knows nothing about what’s happening in my life right now. No one has told her about William’s arrival in Paris or what I am in the process of deciding I must do next. Her world is all Sophie, all the time. As it should be.

  “Um, sure,” I say. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk then. Have a lovely evening. Don’t get up. See you soon. Mwah mwah.” I pantomime cheek kisses and stride to the door.

  Margaret laughs. “Your soupe de poulet was magnificent, by the way. We had it for lunch.”

  “Good. Great.” I smile over my shoulder at her. Soup is always better the next day.

  “Aimée!” Manu catches up to me. “I will accompany you.” He reaches for my shopping bags.

  “No need. Just give me your key.”

  Maybe this sounds rude, but my mind is filled with images of him spending the night here at Margaret’s. With Sophie. In my former bed. It shouldn’t bother me. At least not anymore.

  “Are you sure?” He glances back at Sophie, who is munching down another chocolate and ignoring me. She doesn’t need to act so sulky. She’s won. She’s getting back her clothes, her room, her mother, her boyfriend, and her life. If she ever saw me as competition, she doesn’t need to worry now.

  At the door, Manu plucks my trench coat from its hook and helps me into it as no American man has ever done but as French men always seem to do. I sort of wish he wouldn’t. The brush of his hand on my shoulder makes me blush, which is stupid, and I can’t meet his eyes as I accept the key to his apartment.

  “Call me when you arrive.”

  “Sure,” I say, stepping out of his reach. “Thanks for letting me stay at your place. Again.”

  “Manu!” Margaret is waving her arms. “Don’t forget the soup, darling.”

  “Ah. Right. Wait here.” Manu hurries into the kitchen and returns bearing a white plastic food container. “For your supper,” he says.

  “Oh. OK. Thanks.” As I accept the container, I realize all this must have been determined in advance. They discussed me and decided that soon after I returned I’d be dispatched elsewhere. Maybe William has reappeared in my life just in the nick of time. Maybe it’s all meant to be.

  “You can heat it in the microwave.”

  “Yes, I know.” I wedge the container into my tote and gather up my various bags. It’s my own soup. I do know how to heat it up.

  “You have the code to get into the building, correct?”

  I nod. What is his problem? I’ve been to Manu’s place dozens of times, including the night before last, when I slept on his clic-clac.

  I open the heavy front door of Margaret’s apartment before Manu has a chance to do it for me and turn for one last look. Honey-gold parquet floor, butter-pat yellow silk wallpaper, heavy clove-dark beams striping the cream-white ceiling. For a few blissful months this home was my home. Margaret was my mother. Manu was my friend and boss. Paris was the city where I lived. It was a real-life fairytale come true and a whole lot more than many people get. I’m grateful for it all. I really am.

  “A plus tard,” he calls as I hurry down the stairwell.

  “Yeah. See you later,” I answer without looking back.

  In the courtyard, I look down at my belly, where Catherine remains perfectly still.

  Not to worry, sweet child. I’m going to get a grip on things. Soon. Promise.

  seventeen

  In the France I’ve come to know, Sunday is a day of rest. Shops close. Traffic dwindles. Pedestrians consist mainly of families walking off the effects of their midday meal. The entire atmosphere is one of repose, ease, and equanimity.

  During the months I lived with Margaret we always slept in on Sundays. The rest of the morning we frittered away sipping tea and nibbling croissants. Later we’d go out for lunch, sometimes with Manu. We never felt we ought to be doing something more productive with our day. It was always just enough to enjoy the food, the conversation, and each other—a delightful way of passing the time that Margaret told me is called art de vivre.

  On this Sunday morning, William’s fifth day in Paris and surely one of my last ones, I wake before six. Our rendezvous isn’t until nine-thirty, but I can’t sleep. And neither can Catherine; she’s been bouncing around all night.

  At nine twenty-eight I show up at the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc, showered and lotioned, hair shining, make-up flawless. The day is warm, so I wear the cotton navy blue and white polka dot chemise dress Margaret found for me on sale at the BHV department store and insisted I buy. With sandals. No socks.

  I even shaved my legs.

  In our brief phone call last night, William proposed we meet at his hotel and go from there to breakfast. But when I enter the lobby the only people present are an elderly woman and the deskman. The woman leans on a purple metal cane and speaks French with a foreign accent I don’t recognize as she supervises the transfer of her immense amount of luggage from the lobby to a waiting taxi outside. I help with the lighter bags, wondering if I’ll have the gumption to be traveling alone when I’m this lady’s age and if I’d carry this much stuff.

  Everyone has a story to tell. It could be outlandish, like Sophie’s tale of being held hostage in a remote Moroccan village for two years. It could be mundane, like my entire narrative from birth until the day I left Phoenix and landed in Paris (when my life became very fabulous indeed). This lady looks like she opted for the solo-travel adventurous road. She smiles at me as she gets into the cab. “Merci,” she says, pronouncing it “murr-see.” I smile back.

  When the woman and her luggage are gone, the deskman turns to me. He’s the same one who was here last spring, when I stayed at this hotel. He doesn�
��t show signs of remembering me even though he should. He called cabs for me, stored my bags, let me use his phone, and even bought me breakfast one day. I was a tremendous pain in the rear. But perhaps I am completely transformed; perhaps I have turned into Amy 2.0.

  If I return to Phoenix with William, will I remain this way? Or will I revert to the often-dithery (and too-often weak) Amy? I hope not.

  “Numéro soixante-et-un,” the deskman says when I ask, in pretty good French, if Monsieur Brodie is here. “Merci,” I reply, and head for the stairs. Not a lot of security measures in place at the old Hôtel du Cheval Blanc. You can walk in and be given any information you request.

  Room number sixty-one is on the top floor. William doesn’t enjoy surprises—he likes to be the one with the superior facts and data, remember—but I’m determined to go up anyway. My husband needs to start getting used to the unexpected. Babies are full of surprises. Kids too. And, I guess, spouses.

  As I trudge up the worn wooden stairs, I think about the other time William and I encountered each other in a Paris hotel room, last April when he found out about my “break” and came in pursuit. He was angry. He ranted and shouted and accused and slandered. He even kicked over a chair.

  Since then I’ve tried to tell myself, “Well, it was only a chair—at least he didn’t kick me,” but that’s not very comforting. Dad never abused the furniture. He never yelled or cursed. He was never violent in any way.

  By the time I reach the sixth floor I’m out of breath, but I don’t take the time to compose myself. William’s proximity has me on high alert. I step straight to the door labeled with a six and a one and rap on it.

  I wait. Listen. All is silent. Maybe I should’ve texted or phoned first instead.

  “Will?” I call through the door.

  Still no answer.

  I knock again, louder this time, because maybe he’s in the bathroom. Two seconds later I hear a crash and a muffled “Shit.”