Hidden in Paris

by Corine Gantz

  “We haven’t seen Lucas,” Lola said, pushing the stroller.

  “He is skiing in Courchevel.”

  “So he lives his own life?” Lola asked.

  Annie thought it was a strange question. “I know, the nerve of him.”

  “It’s the French way,” Lola quipped. “I’m sure it’s healthier.”

  Healthier than what? Annie wondered. “Let’s go to Parc du Ranelagh. It’s very close.”

  They walked on the crowded sidewalk of rue de Passy. Well-dressed mothers held the hands of their children bundled up in elaborate tiny coats, scarves, and hats. Annie had never managed that, well-dressed children. Or a well-dressed self. Johnny had picked up that Parisian flair like he’d been born to it. His wardrobe was meant to dazzle. Italian suits, tailor-made shirts, thousand dollar shoes. He had walked proudly in this neighborhood where bejeweled old ladies walked their prized dogs and where perfumed men in trench coats walked quickly, looking straight out of Vogue Homme.

  “How do the French learn to be elegant?” Lola asked, maybe reading her thoughts.

  “It’s that stuff they put in red wine.”

  “Even the French dogs are more elegant than American dogs, no?” Lola mused.

  “There’s even a je ne sais quoi to the way they sniff each other’s butt.”

  They walked on Chaussée de la Muette and soon entered the Jardins du Ranelagh. The three of them must have been an odd sight, each one an extreme of the female body spectrum—Lola the Amazon, Althea the waif, and she, feeling as tall as she was wide in her unflattering but oh-so-comfy red poncho, trotting between them like a miniature pony. She found herself in control of the stroller and it felt good, even with someone else’s child in it. The wheels made a comforting swish sound against the wet sand of the path. She had carried three babies inside her, then in carriers. She had pushed their strollers, always carrying, holding, pulling, lifting, pushing, and now she missed the constant physical contact she had taken for granted. She used to be a physical kind of girl. These days, she had to respect the boys’ desire and need for more separateness, but the result was that she didn’t get to touch or be touched too often. She felt increasingly physically separated from other humans, and emotional separation did not feel so far behind.

  The giant beech and ash trees were bare and majestic, the air crisp and clean. Street noises became muffled and then disappeared. She felt the tension in her jaw ease as they walked and the children ran ahead. They passed neat rows of boxwood and life-size antique sculptures of goddesses, and through the bare branches of the trees, she admired the ornate details of the neighborhood’s architecture. With the cars out of sight, they could well have stepped back in time a hundred years. Annie pointed to the Musée Marmottan, the impressionist museum and vast collection of Monet’s work, and the green wooden barrack where the traditional puppet Guignol had been an attraction for generations of Parisian children. She felt strangely proud. This was her city.

  Could it be that Althea was paying no attention to her city? Her park? Althea was walking with her head down, looking at nothing but her own feet and keeping her hands close to her chin to hold the collar of her flimsy coat. Meanwhile, she spoke in poor Lola’s ear, explaining that she used to bite her nails but had read it is bad for the enamel of her teeth. What? Annie wanted to say “you’re in Pa-ris! Forget your frigging enamel for a minute.” How could Lola bear this? In the last few days, Annie had attempted to exchange meaningful looks with Lola every time Althea went into one of her soliloquies. She did so in obvious ways by rolling her eyes and tilting her head back in expressions of utter boredom. To all of these, Lola appeared entirely impervious. At the moment, she showed no sign of annoyance, and nodded in concentration at Althea as she walked. Lola looked so rested, so much more serene and relaxed than she had a week ago. It was interesting how, in the space of a week, Lola had stopped wearing makeup and had taken to moving about the house in leggings and socks. Now she wore jeans and a down jacket that had belonged to Johnny. A wool hat was screwed on her short hair and she walked like a boy, hands in her pockets, looking up and around and smiling to no one in particular. The absence of a husband was doing her good. Annie wished she could be so lucky.

  They arrived at the playground, which was filled with children, mothers, nannies, and French conversations, and then walked around to a quieter area with an empty stone bench facing the winter sun. On the bench next to theirs sat a carefully made up elderly woman. Her hands were covered with large rings and twenty or so pigeons surrounded her as she fed them remnants of a pastry. The kids ran to the jungle gym and Simon watched the pigeons, mesmerized. He seemed to put a great deal of thought into it, then toddled towards the birds and faked a small kick in their direction. The pigeons flew away noisily, then landed a few yards away and walked right back to be fed.

  “Méchant garçon!” the old woman barked at Simon. Simon’s face turned pale. He pivoted on his feet and threw himself into Lola’s arms.

  “La ferme, vieille peau!” Annie yelled at the woman. She was telling her to shut up and calling her an “old skin,” a sure bet of an insult to French women of any age. The old woman showed a fist in their direction, got up, and hurried away screaming. “Retournez dans votre pays.”

  Go back to their country? Annie was disgusted. It was one thing to be mean to defenseless children, but open xenophobia? “Tes pigeons ont chié sur ta tête!” she screamed back. She then turned to Lola and Althea and explained, “I just told her that her pigeons crapped on her head!” She burst out laughing and was genuinely surprised when the two didn’t laugh. In fact all she read on Lola and Althea’s faces was shamed bewilderment. “What?” she asked. The two only looked at their shoes. “Oh, I know just what you’re thinking. I used to feel the same way. Why such gratuitous antagonism, heh? It’s just France, that’s all. The French are all about opinions and arguments. In fact, it’s better to have a hideous opinion than no opinion at all.” Because at least that’s interesting! Annie thought, unlike Althea’s dissertation on teeth and enamel.

  Simon began to play sweetly in the sand while Lia, Maxence, Paul, and Laurent dangled from the jungle gym like a family of monkeys. Lola looked perfectly at peace with the moment, despite Althea’s talking her head off. Annie observed how fine Lola’s skin was even in full daylight and without makeup. She decided to interrupt Althea’s rambling.

  “I’m considering renting one last room to someone. It’s an artist actually, a relative of Lucas who’s going through a financial and artistic crisis.” She paused. “But I’m kind of hesitating.”

  “About what?” Lola asked.

  “Well, it’s a man.”

  “Is that a problem? Not enough bathrooms?”

  “I’ve known Jared for years. You’d want him in your bathroom. That’s the problem,” she said. “He’s gorgeous, thirty years old, as French as they get, and did I mention gorgeous? He’s broken many hearts, I’m sure. Do we need this?”

  “My heart’s long been broken. I’m safe,” Lola laughed.

  Annie looked at Althea who sat stiffly on the bench. “What about you Althea? Whadayathink?”

  “Well, I... don’t... ” Althea seemed to choke on her words and she blushed. “I mean I don’t feel... anything.”

  Annie braced herself for another one of Althea’s stories. But instead, Althea’s shoulders began shaking and her face went from beet-red to turnip-white. Her expression was one of terror. She looked up at them, and then said, out of nowhere. “I’m...sick...I need help.” She then gasped, bent forward and buried her face in her hands. Huge sobs came like a wave from deep inside her.

  Annie looked at Lola for help, only to find her reaction even stranger. Lola was stiff as a statue, and then she began to recoil and slide on the bench away from Althea. Althea’s cries became louder, and to Annie’s amazement, Lola walked away from the bench and went to play with Simon in the sand box. Lola had ditched her! Some Saint she was! What to do? What was this? Annie scooted
close to Althea and did the only thing she could think of, which was to wrap one arm around Althea’s frail shoulders, noticing just how frail the girl really was, hardly thicker than a twelve year old, and rub her back as she whispered, “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

  “I’m not okay,” Althea murmured.

  “That’s exactly why you’re here,” Annie said softly. “That’s why we’re all here. That’s why you came all this way to Paris, to get better!”

  “I can’t get better,” Althea said, weeping.

  “Are you, like...really sick? What is the problem?” Annie said, still holding her tight with one arm and waving impatiently for Lola to come closer. Lola approached the bench with great reluctance.

  Althea lifted her face toward them. “Can’t you see me? Just look at me! I am the problem!” she bellowed.

  It seemed as though everyone, Lola, the children on the playground, passersby and their dogs, even the pigeons had turned to statues, all eyes and ears in their direction.

  “At last!” Annie said.

  “I don’t see a problem,” Lola said hastily.

  “I’m without...hope,” Althea sobbed.

  “Well, you’re in Paris now. A new life. A new you!” Annie suggested.

  “I don’t... think so.”

  “Bah, you’re depressed, that’s all.” Annie suggested. “What about Prozac? Xanax? It doesn’t make a dent for me, I’d be more of a horse tranquilizer type of girl, but you could try it.”

  “I have no desire to live,” Althea said flatly.

  Yikes. No desire to live? What did that mean? “It will probably pass,” she said for lack of a better idea. “I’ve buried a husband, and look at me, I’m totally fine now.” She looked up at Lola and gave her a look that said, “Say something!” But Lola had buried her nose in her turtleneck and was looking away.

  Althea lifted her head. “I’m not going to be fine,” she said with such absence of passion that Annie’s arms covered with goosebumps.

  On the way back home, Simon refused to climb in his stroller and instead took hold of Annie’s hand. She liked the small warm hand in hers, needed it, as Althea spoke about things Simon was luckily too young to understand. There were no more talks about teeth, only about depression and hopelessness. Maybe this was better. At least it felt real. And Althea was no longer talking to Lola. She was talking to her. Lola, she guessed was the perfect person to go to when you wanted to say nothing at all. Oh, she would not have minded being off the hook. She dug furiously in her brain for comforting notions to offer Althea, who countered each and every one. Words were futile in the face of Althea’s nihilism.

  Far behind them in the street, having let the kids go ahead of her, Lola pushed the empty stroller, not even pretending to want to help. Annie could have maimed her. At last her house was in sight, her beautiful home. The carved stones, the massive front door, and the sculpted silhouettes of sycamores fed her strength and she started breathing again. Could it be that the beauty of the house, the street, of Paris was lost on Althea? How mistaken she had been. Paris was no bloody cure for anything, and she herself was the living proof of it.

  The children climbed up the stone stairs excitedly. It was as though while all this was happening, the children had had a watershed moment and were now playing together. What had she missed? Simon looked happiest, still hanging on to her hand and taking large steps up the stairs. Inside the house, coats, gloves, and scarves were removed and the children ran upstairs to the bedrooms. That is when Lola finally turned to Althea and said brightly, “I know exactly what you need.”

  “Do you now?” Annie said, as sarcastically as she could.

  Lola chirped, “A makeover!”

  Annie closed her eyes in disbelief and ran up the stairs to take refuge in her bedroom.

  Annie had learned at the school of insomnia that the later she stayed up, the less hours of loneliness she would endure in the wee hours of the morning. It was past midnight. She was physically drained but her brain had never been more alert. There was no peace in sight. She was running on panic mode. In her pajamas and bathrobe, she sat at the kitchen table with only the light of a small table lamp over her and a pile of cookbooks at her side as she took notes for the next day, ingredients, quantities, recipes, nonsense. Planning a meal was how she muscled through the crisis of self-doubt, how she mapped out her day, her year, the rest of her life.

  She had to send these people back. She had to send them all back from where they came. Perfect Lola back to perfect Lola land, doing cheerleading or whatever it was she did there, and Althea back to her cave. They would leave and take with them their children, their death wish, their messy lives, and their huggable toddlers. Maybe she’d go back home to the States too, sell the house, give up on Paris, renounce huile de truffe and paté de lapin. She could resume the life she had interrupted ten years ago. She’d live at her parent’s house, work at Starbucks, and go back to law school. Pass the bar exam. She wasn’t too old to crawl back into the womb.

  She came to the conclusion that if there was to be any sleep at all, she would have to get a glass of something first. She closed her book, turned off the light, and left the kitchen in the direction of the living room and the liquor cabinet. How pathetic she was to resort to drinking alone in the middle of the night. The house felt so symbiotic that even in pitch black, she could easily move about it without bumping into things. Maybe it was the house that was the womb? She advanced in the dark, hearing only the shuffle of her socks on the wood floor. She was surprised to find the door to the living room open because she remembered clearly closing that very door an hour before. She stood, on hold. Something was not right. She heard the wood floor creak somewhere in the room. Someone was in there. Her heart thumping, she felt for the heavy vase on the table and waited on alert, prepared to take hold of the vase and crack it on someone’s skull. But then came the distinct sound of a bottle being uncapped. She moved her shaking hand to the light switch, adrenalin pumping, and turned on the light.

  It was Lola in the act of nursing a bottle of rum. Lola’s eyes widened in shock when she saw her, but she continued taking a long swig from the bottle, like a child determined to stuff as much candy into his mouth before his mother takes it away. Annie put her hands over her pounding heart. “You scared the living crap out of me!”

  Lola moved the bottle away from her lips and began laughing, laughing and coughing so hard that tears sprang from her eyes. “I’m not an alcoholic, I swear!” she said between snorts of laughter. Annie gravely reached for the bottle and took it authoritatively out of Lola’s hand, which made Lola laugh ever harder. “I must look sooo guilty,” she wept.

  Annie looked at her in silence, frowning, as Lola doubled over with laughter. She pointed to the bottle in Annie’s hand. “I wasn’t quite finished getting plastered,” she said. Annie contemplated the bottle in her hand, wiped the top with her pajama sleeve, took a long swig, and coughed before handing the bottle back to Lola.

  “Let’s do this properly, shall we.”

  Annie turned on the fireplace and placed a fresh log in. She went to the kitchen and came back with a plate which held small French cookies, ladyfingers and langues de chat, and then sank to the couch. Lola curled on pillows at the coffee table and poured rum in small glasses. They dipped cookies in rum, letting the alcohol and the fire transform the room around them. The walls, the framed art, the photographs of the children, and the antique furniture took on an orange glow.

  “When’s Lucas coming back?” Lola asked.

  Annie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “See, that’s so French, so modern. I love it,” She said, looking impressed.

  Annie raised an eyebrow. “What is French?”

  “You know, it’s totally not codependent. You don’t own each other.” She gave Annie a playful look. “Is it true that French men are better lovers?”

  “Johnny was American.”

  Lola looked dismayed. “Lucas? Isn’t he your
boyfriend?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But he came to the airport.”

  Annie laughed despite herself. “The airport, yes, that would be a telltale sign.”

  “I figured...”

  “Am I supposed to deny in advance everything people might imagine?” She realized she had no reason to be defensive and softened her tone. “He’s just a great friend of the family. There is nothing between us, of course.”

  “I could have sworn.”

  “Look, Lucas is a womanizer, and me, I’m one man’s woman.” She marked a pause, “One dead man’s woman. Besides, Lucas is rather out of my league, wouldn’t you say?” Lola seemed to consider that for a moment and didn’t contradict her. That alone pissed Annie off. You can never let your guard down around popular girls. Popular girls get that way by being cutthroat and eliminating the competition. And what better way to eliminate the competition than to make them feel two inches tall. “Lola,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you a personal question. How can you be so cold and collected in the middle of this marriage crisis of yours?” Cold and collected. She was mostly referring to Lola’s behavior at the park. If Lola noticed her choice of words, she did not let on.

  “I don’t feel calm or collected. I’m neither of those things,” she responded, her voice trailing a bit, the valley accent suddenly apparent. Annie didn’t know if it was due to sadness, or due to the rum.

  “This morning with Althea, you seemed very... composed,” Annie said, tight-lipped.

  “No way. I was totally, like, freaking out! I’m, like, the least qualified to help anyone. I can barely help myself,” she said, her valley girl accent taking over. “I have no control over my life, no control over anything, really. I’m put together and all but it’s all totally fake. Lying is, like...totally my life!” she added, biting her lip like she might cry. Annie tried to read Lola’s face. “How much booze did you have?” Lola widened her arms “A lot!” She continued in earnest. “Guess what?” she laid her upper body flat on the coffee table with complete abandon and whispered, “I’m not even a real brunette!” Come to think of it, Lola’s coal-black hair was surprisingly dark for her complexion. “That’s your big lie? I’m pretty confident you won’t burn in hell for that one.”