Paris for Two

by Phoebe Stone

  “Ava!!!” I shout suddenly. “It was you who stole my backpack and the letter! You stole it when I went to the Laundromat and left you at the café! And you didn’t tell me! You let me worry and feel terrible all this time. And I felt so bad that I waited on you hand and foot! I did everything you asked! Everything. You outfoxed me, Ava!!” I shout. I can see in the mirror that I am starting to pout.

  “Well,” says Ava, “the letter was mine so I couldn’t exactly steal it, could I? I didn’t tell you because I knew you would torture yourself much more than I ever could. And besides, you deserved it! You tried to keep me and Logan apart!”

  “But it didn’t work?” I say.

  “No,” Ava says.

  And then suddenly her words sink in and I feel a huge rush of relief. It pours over me in another great wash. “You mean, I didn’t ruin everything between you and Logan?”

  “No,” says Ava. “He likes me! He likes me a lot!”

  “Oh, Ava!” I say. And I throw my arms around her again. “I am soooo glad.”

  “And,” says Ava, “I got a great sparkly silver sweater out of the deal.”

  “And tons of breakfasts in bed,” I say. “And all your laundry done and everything else.”

  “And great sandwiches bought and delivered,” says Ava.

  “Ava, you outfoxed me!” I say again.

  “Older sisters always outfox younger sisters,” says Ava, beaming at me. “That is just the way it is.”

  “Ava, may I quote you on that?” I say and suddenly we both start laughing. Our laughter bursts and bubbles and coughs and I buckle forward again. We laugh and laugh and laugh. I feel as if we are laughing our way up to the ceiling and out the window, the Beanly sisters roaring away with the sparrows and the doves cooing, laughing with the bells of Paris ringing, laughing so much and so hard, Ava and I practically laugh our way down the Champs-Élysées and up to the tippy top of the Arc de Triomphe. And there you might see us, my sister and me, two short-haired girls, balancing, billowing, just laughing away in pure, total relief.

  Days roll by like piano notes in Paris or like the sound of the French language rolling out of everyone’s mouth, mysterious music. I am sitting at the piano in the corner of the salon, my hands on the keys. I try to stretch my hands the full length of eight notes, an octave, but I can’t reach. Like Delphine, my hands are quite small, which is good for sewing. Perhaps having large hands like Windel makes playing the piano the way he does possible. I feel a sadness but still a wonder at Windel’s ability.

  Just then I hear Collette in the hallway with Mom. “You know, I need a painting of Albert for Le Bon Bon as a going-away gift. You have this gift in America?”

  “Uh-huh, we do,” says my mother. “But who is going away?”

  “Well, it has not yet been decided,” says Collette. “But I think it is nice to have a painting of Albert. It will make Le Bon Bon happy! And I will pay you a hundred euros.”

  “Oh, well, that I may not be able to refuse,” says Mom.

  “And of course, many people who live on the rue Michel-Ange will see this painting and if it is nice they too will want one. Most of the people who live on the rue Michel-Ange have birds. Madame Turpin has already told me she might like a painting of Aimé, her little cockatoo,” says Collette.

  “Oh,” says Mom.

  “And so while you are here you might have a little business, as you put it in your country, and make a few bucks, n’est-ce pas?” Collette says.

  “Oh,” says Mom. “Well, I will be very pleased to paint Monsieur Le Bon Bon’s bird.”

  “You can use a photograph and then of course I can bring him upstairs in his cage. He’ll love the attention!” says Collette.

  “I do have a canvas. Is it a large space? It might be the perfect size to fill that gap on Monsieur’s wall. My husband bought me the canvas a while ago. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?” says Mom.

  “Perhaps,” says Collette.

  Then their voices fade as they go downstairs to look at the space. I play a few notes on the piano with one finger. Then I add a few more, making a kind of little tune that seems to describe for me the sadness I feel about Windel, the relief and forgiveness I feel about Ava, and also the gratefulness I feel for Collette and her friendship.

  Dad was away for a couple of days and returned yesterday. Now he comes bustling into the apartment at the end of a rainy afternoon. “Okay, so it finally happened just as she predicted,” Dad says. “I was caught out in the world without Grandma Beanly’s umbrella!” He stands there reminding me of a soaking-wet American rabbit in a dripping beret with a loaf of soggy French bread in his paw.

  Ava has been napping but she’s up now, wandering around with her jagged hair sticking out in places. Yesterday we wore hats to hide our cut hair from Dad. But not today.

  Dad stops in his tracks looking at Ava and says, “Ava! What happened to your beautiful long hair? Where is it?”

  “It’s in the garbage,” says Ava. “I cut it.”

  “Me too, Dad,” I say, standing next to her.

  Dad’s eyes go wide and he steps back a few paces and looks at us for quite a while. “Ahhh, I shall forever be mystified by you two, just as we are mystified by the moon and the stars in the sky,” he says.

  “Yada yada, Dad,” says Ava.

  “Well, actually, girls, I have got a surprise for you too. Buddy, come here,” he says.

  “What, Angus?” Mom calls from the dining room. “Are you upset about the girls’ hair? I know you wanted us all to live in another era, but the truth is, Angus, we don’t. And you come in here. I’m too busy to get up,” says Mom.

  “Too busy for me,” says Dad, looking slightly bruised. Dad goes into the dining room and Ava and I follow. “Buddy, wow! You’re painting. That’s beautiful! It looks just like Albert. And I love the colors.”

  “Well, did you expect anything less?” says Mom.

  “No, Buddy, I didn’t,” says Dad, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Look, can you guys go in the other room now? Angus, you’re disturbing me,” says Mom, looking at her painting and then down at her palette of colors.

  “What?” says Dad.

  Then Ava and I kind of drag Dad into the hall. “Look, girls,” he says, pulling up his sleeve. “I got a tattoo. That’s my surprise!”

  “Oh no,” Mom calls. “You’re not the type, honey. You have to be a motorcycle man to have a tattoo.”

  “Not a Flaubert man?” Dad says.

  “No,” says Mom and she gets up and quietly shuts the dining room door.

  “What?” calls Dad. “Now we match. We’ll be twins with tattoos, Buddy. You won’t be embarrassed about your tattoo ’cause I’ve got one too.”

  “What’s it say, Dad?” I ask.

  “You see the book? Well, on the book it says Je lis les romans de Flaubert, which means ‘I read the novels of Flaubert.’ ”

  “Oh, Dad, that’s dorky,” says Ava.

  “Ava, there is nothing wrong with a bit of dork now and then. To be dork-free is to be boring!” Dad says.

  “You’re cute, Dad, so we forgive you,” says Ava, and she kisses him on one cheek and I kiss him on the other. He has a daughter on both sides of him, as usual, and he’s smiling.

  And then I look over at Ava with caution. I nod my head at her. She nods back. So I say in a quiet, careful voice, “Dad, um, Ava is thinking about seeing her other dad. Actually, I mean, just to say hi and, you know.”

  “Really, Pumpkin? When did this happen?” says Dad. He kind of puts his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself.

  “Oh, yesterday, I guess. Sort of. When he called again in the afternoon, I answered the phone. We talked a little. He told me he and his family are staying in the town of Versailles,” says Ava. “I might go out there for a short visit. Well, he’s going to drive in and pick me up, actually. Pet might come along.”

  “Well, that’s a good idea, Pumpkin. Girls,” says Dad. “A really grand
and fine idea.” Then he gets quiet for a minute. And he puts his arm around Ava. “And don’t worry about Buddy. I’ll walk her through it. I know all this has been hard for you.”

  Ava closes her eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” she says.

  “We’ll just be going for a quick chat. No big deal,” I say.

  “Ava, you will always be my Pumpkin, you know that,” Dad says.

  “I know that, Dad,” says Ava.

  “But,” says Dad, changing into his joking voice, “don’t stay more than an afternoon. No longer. Okay? Promise me?”

  “Okay, Dad,” says Ava.

  “And are you girls ready to go to Flaubert’s house this weekend? Buddy, what do you say?” he calls out to Mom.

  “Dad, we’ve tried twice. We never make it there. Something always stops us, like the protest—and then the last time that water main broke in front of our car and flooded the engine and the front seat,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to go there. I Googled Flaubert’s house and as I suspected, there’s no house there anyway. It’s just the garden and a small pavilion left. The house was torn down and the whole place is surrounded by smoking factories. It would break Flaubert’s heart to see it. He wanted life to stay old-fashioned and handmade. And he was right!” Dad calls out.

  Then a deep sadness comes like a shadow over Dad’s face and he just stands there with his arms wrapped tightly around Ava and me.

  Yes, the days roll by in Paris, like a French song sung on a small side street in a trilling voice with an accordion playing. Yes, the days roll by and, of all things, Ava and I have plans to go to a movie this evening. We haven’t been to a movie together since I was eight. Ava had eaten something spoiled earlier and halfway into the movie she threw up on my lap. I am hopeful things will go better this time. We’re planning to see an American movie with Brad Pitt so we figure it will be in English.

  Dad says, “Hey, what’s the flick? Can I go along?”

  “A flick? What’s that?” says Ava.

  “Angus,” says Mom, “don’t horn in. Let the girls do something alone for a change.”

  Personally I like to get dressed up when I go to the movies. I like to get dressed up whenever I go anywhere. So I put on my green cotton sundress and hat I made especially for this trip to Paris. Ava doesn’t say anything when I walk into the hallway. But she smiles. I feel pretty happy with the green color and the fall of the skirt and the choice of fabric. The judges liked my designs. Ava likes my designs.

  Recently I have been feeling pretty good about stepping out on the streets of Paris. I see all kinds of wonderful and different and weird clothes. Some long and lacy, some short and puffy. Summer hats of all sizes and shapes and colors. Silk scarves flowing or knotted or worn around the waist.

  Collette helped me write an email to the panel at the fashion show explaining the mix-up, as they called it. We told them that Ava was going to be the model and had sent in the dresses she was going to be wearing. They were so cheered, they wrote back, to clear up the confusion. And so pleased, they said, to include my designs in the show. I admit to crying a little when I read that.

  Ava and I ride the tiny elevator together now and when we pass Collette’s closed door we find a woman sitting in the hallway where Collette often sits. She seems to be pleasantly waiting for Collette.

  We go out under the wisteria and hit the sidewalk. The Beanly sisters in Paris. We walk by a van parked right in front of our building, with gold French words on the side that say Musée de la Poupée de Paris.

  I look around for Collette but I don’t see her out here watering the flowers with her green tin watering can, as she often does. There was something about that kindly woman sitting there in the hallway. Something that gives me a pinch of unease.

  Musée is museum, I am thinking. Poupée means doll. So the van says “Doll Museum of Paris.” Oh. I take a deep breath. I feel quiet all the way to the soles of my feet. I wonder what Collette is doing. Why is the museum van there? Who was that patient-looking woman?

  We get to the end of the street and turn. I notice immediately the lamppost on the corner has a flyer wrapped around it. Being the curious type, I take a look. Ava noses over and sees it too. We’re on the Avenue Mozart now. I haven’t had the greatest of luck in this area so far.

  “Look,” says Ava, “it’s a flyer about your shoe. And look, wow, they have glued a photo of your shoe on the flyer. And it says something about one shoe being found and it says if anybody knows the owner of the shoe, they should contact the manager at the Hôtel Magique. You should go over there and get your shoe.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” I say. “No way. There’s someone staying there I don’t want to run into.”

  Then we arrive at the movie theater. We buy a bunch of candy. Unfortunately we get into the theater, find two cool seats in a perfect location, and then we realize Brad Pitt is saying things like “Bonjour, mon vieux,” and “Mais non!” We sit there, mostly clueless, munching chocolate.

  As we polish off bar number three, Ava whispers, “So are they going to have rehearsals for the fashion show? I mean, so I know what to do. I mean, I can walk the walk, I’ve practiced it a zillion times since I was twelve, but you know, are they going to rehearse?”

  “Well, I don’t know if they are, but we’re going to, aren’t we?” I say.

  “Well, yeah,” says Ava, “definitely.” Ava hands me another chocolate bar but I can’t manage it. My stomach is turning in circles. I’m feeling upset about that shoe flyer. I mean, I hate to abandon my personal property but I am not going over there and risking running into Windel Watson again or his mother, for that matter. The last time I went near the Hôtel Magique it was a total disaster.

  Now on the screen there’s a cowboy scene with Brad Pitt on a rearing horse and people shooting each other. Jean-Claude would love this part. There’s smoke and noise and in the chaos a horse in the background appears to get shot and slides into the dust for atmosphere.

  That’s when we stand up to leave. If a horse gets shot, Ava always leaves. It doesn’t matter if the horse is in the background, just part of the scenery, and probably didn’t really get hurt at all. That’s where Ava draws the line.

  We walk back down the Avenue Mozart. I suggest turning a corner to get slightly farther away from the little side street that houses that dreadful hotel. We seem to pass several more of those shoe flyers pasted on streetlamps.

  “Honey, look! Here’s another flyer! You’ve got to do something about it!” Ava says. It’s been years since Ava has called me “honey.” I am happy to hear that word, even though it has a slight ring of superiority about it. But it’s a superiority younger sisters are used to and expect. It’s a dependable superiority, one we can count on in this world of chaos.

  “Honey,” she says again, “you have to go get that shoe. It was a great shoe!”

  “Great?” I say. “You liked the shoes?”

  “Well, I mean, they were a little weird, but cute in a way. I mean, with that mouse on the toe. It’s worth going back for the one. What good is the other shoe at home? You can’t wear one shoe.”

  “No way,” I say again. “I am not going anywhere near the Hôtel Magique. And I am not going to explain why, so don’t ask.”

  I also don’t correct Ava about my shoe and the mouse on the toe. I don’t tell her she’s wrong and that it is a poodle. I just let it pass. Older sisters do not like to be wrong. They enjoy being right. They are happier and nicer when they are right. Even when they are dead wrong.

  Oh, I have so much to do to prepare for the fashion show. I have taken out the hem on each of the four dresses and lengthened them. And because Ava has a thin frame, they now fit her beautifully. It was astonishing to see Ava wearing one of my creations, especially the maroon-and-orange one inspired by Delphine Rouette’s doll dress. Suddenly Ava was part of everything that has happened to me in Paris. She was part of the cinders and the sparkle. The light and the dark. The happy and the s
ad things.

  Ava and I have started rehearsing together. She has been practicing changing outfits as fast as she can behind a makeshift screen. Mom has been timing her. I have decided on the order in which each dress will be presented and I have written my little introduction talk. I have also chosen the music with some help from Dad. He and Ava have chosen this really old song “Oh! You Beautiful Doll.”

  Yesterday I went over to the embassy and met everyone, and no one could believe (until they met me) that I was only twelve. Mom went with me. On the way home she said, “Didn’t Ava send in something to the fashion show?”

  “Yes, she did,” I said. “She sent in my designs because she was going to be modeling them.”

  “What happened to her dresses?” Mom asked.

  “She didn’t send those in because she used bought patterns,” I said. “We decided this was better.”

  Mom looks over at me, kind of wounded and kind of pleased at the same time. “Oh, I get it,” she says, smiling. “That sounds lovely, honey.”

  Then we stopped and bought some thin lavender cotton fabric for the dress I will sew for myself to wear that night.

  I haven’t seen much of Collette lately and that makes me feel anxious. Today outside her door I see a little old-fashioned suitcase with a leather handle sitting there in the hall and no sign of Collette, but then I run into her on the street and feel better.

  “Oh, my little angel,” she says, hugging me. “I love your new haircut. You look so à la mode!”

  “Well, Dad liked our old-fashioned long hair. But he’ll get used to it,” I say.

  “Oh, I can’t wait to see your fashion show. I will be there early. I am so pleased. Are you going to sew yourself a dress to wear? Would you like to use my sewing machine? I can bring it upstairs for you.”