Hidden in Paris

by Corine Gantz

  And Jared let himself into her room, without a word, and gently closed the door behind them.

  At first, Althea had to contract every muscle in her body to control her trembling. As soon as he entered her room he filled it entirely. His scent, so dizzyingly strange and wonderful changed the texture of the walls, the bedspread, the air. He was tall and his shoulders were wide, and when he took off his sweater, revealing tattooed arms—muscled, hairless arms and more of his scent—she felt utterly confused. What he wanted she did not ask herself. He was there and she was overtaken with panic, a panic tangled with pleasure.

  “Attends!” he said, putting his hand up like he was stopping traffic. Wait. She watched him disappear into the hallway and heard him enter his room. Overwhelmed, she dropped down onto her bed, sat next to his abandoned black wool sweater and waited. She thought of straightening her room, putting clothes on. Was she imagining this? Hadn’t she imagined this before? This could well be the continuation of the dream. But the sweater was there, next to her, giving off the concentrated turpentine smell she had detected while standing beside his bedroom door. She was shocked by that scent; appalled she liked it so much. She moved her hand towards the sweater and caressed its coarse wool with the tip of a finger.

  A moment later, Jared had reentered her room with a cardboard box and a large canvas. “Attends,” he said again. He kneeled next to his cardboard box on the floor, inches from her. She observed his unshaved jaw, his neck. His hair fell into his eyes as he retrieved brushes, dirty rags, and paint tubes. It took time, and Jared did not hurry. When he was done, he put some of the objects he had retrieved from his box on her desk and finally looked at her. She felt her heart drumming in her chest. She had not moved from her sitting position on the bed. He smiled a timid smile and came close to her. She was as tense and charged as a lighting rod, hoping he would say something soon or else she might have to burst. But Jared did not feel compelled to speak or to break the silence, and when she understood that, not intellectually but emotionally, when she understood that talk was not expected, or desired, that explanations were not needed, she felt the drop of a terrible weight and her body began to relax. He wanted to paint her!

  With gentle hands, he helped her down on her bed. Her body wasn’t as tense as she expected; her body was hesitant. Jared put a pillow behind her head, and she lay there, on her side, consenting to she didn’t know what. He pointed to the towel wrapping her hair. “Tu peux retirer ça?” Can you take it off? She took the towel off and her hair dropped onto her shoulders, redder, darker now that it was wet. He propped the canvas on the single chair and began to pop open tubes of paints and let large dollops fall onto a magazine. He kneeled in front of the canvas, looked at her. “Tu ne bouges pas. No moving, d’accord?”

  Althea nodded. Jared mixed colors and started painting right away, focused entirely on his silent task of gazing at her, or through her, so focused that Althea, after a few self-conscious moments, began to relax her gaze and let herself scrutinize him. His arms were wiry and strong, and his tattoos frightened her because of the intensity they betrayed. He had beautiful thin fingers. There was a mesmerizing point just below his Adam’s apple where she wanted to bury her face.

  Jared painted, and the only sign that time passed was the growing mass of Althea’s hair drying and becoming a red tangle of curls with a life of its own. Periodically, Jared walked up to her and lightly combed his fingers through her hair, rearranging it. When his finger touched her face, Althea shivered, feeling more alive in this silence and stillness than she had ever imagined possible, like a long-forgotten seed that finally receives a drop of water and begins sprouting, inexorably.

  Avril

  Chapter 16

  Being on the péniche was painful in ways she had not anticipated. Annie was fighting a feeling of claustrophobia that had nothing to do with the movement of the boat. She already regretted being talked into playing tourist on the Bateaux Mouches.

  This was the first day of April and the weather was beautiful. The boat was traveling at a slow pace on the Seine River as she sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches in the deserted cabin without looking out the window. Lola and Simon were up on deck and she had needed time to herself, giving nausea as an excuse. There was no nausea, only a sense of anxiety, like a shallow feeling high up in her chest indicating that something was terribly wrong. Something was terribly wrong with her.

  Lola had insisted that she come, but she should have listened to her gut feeling and stayed home. They had boarded and sat in the large cabin filled with rows of benches, waiting for the rest of the passengers to embark. Simon was toddling from seat to seat, climbing on a bench, then another. The tourists were Japanese for the most part. The Japanese women were so pretty and fresh, smiling. Young Japanese men wore their hair spiked. The rest of the tourists were couples, and she suspected many of them were foreigners on their honeymoon. Everywhere couples embracing, couples kissing, couples holding hands, on the boat and on the banks. Maybe it was the sight of all those couples in love that made her feel sick to her stomach. She and Johnny had started out together in much the same way. She wondered if all these lovey dovey couples would experience Paris as an enchanting, magical place and a few years later see everything change, the memory of lust and love forgotten.

  “Are you all right? You look green,” Lola said.

  “I get anxious when I’m far from the boys,” she said, which was also true.

  “Is this since the accident?”

  “I’m always more comfortable at home sweet home.”

  “I always feel incarcerated in my own house,” Lola said, watching Simon trot between the rows of benches. “How come I can’t achieve that, a happy home?”

  “My guess is that your demonic husband is getting in the way.”

  “The expectations are so Hallmark,” Lola said. “The inviting home, happy children, supportive husband.”

  “And great sex!” Annie had added, inexplicably.

  Lola stared at her intently. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Lola said. She checked to make sure Simon was out of earshot. “But you have to be completely honest with me.”

  Annie shrugged. “I can try.”

  Lola hesitated, “Would you like there to be something between you and Lucas?”

  Annie looked at her wondering if Lola had recently fallen on her head. “Of course not, silly girl. Why such an idea?”

  Lola smiled knowingly. “Just watching the two of you together, I guess.”

  Annie frowned, shook her head and laughed. “Could you imagine me and old Lucas together?”

  “Quite easily, actually.”

  “Eek, don’t!”

  Lola looked conspiratorial. “It never crossed your mind, though? The two of you have never... you know?”

  It was annoying how insistent Lola could be. “Never,” Annie answered in a tone that left no ambivalence.

  “I would have bet. And you know the funny thing is, Althea thought so, too.”

  Lola and Althea talked behind her back? Nobody could talk to Althea. “Why do you ask? Are you interested?”

  Lola spoke in earnest. “I happen to find Lucas very attractive.”

  The first time Annie had met Lucas was on a double date. She and Johnny, Lucas and his girlfriend of the moment. It was at the Rothonde de Passy over an extravagant assiette de fruits de mer. Lucas had been warm and charming and from the get go she had felt very comfortable with him. Lucas’s date was a beautiful Parisienne dressed elegantly, her hair, her manners so refined. Annie had thought they made a very glamorous couple. The next time she had seen Lucas, and the next, he was in the company of yet another beautiful Parisienne. As the years passed, Lucas became one of the friends she and Johnny could not do without, and he introduced them to dozens of petite amies. It was only after Johnny died that Annie found the nerve to ask him to keep the women to himself. Maybe he could not grow up but she was tired of pretending to remember who was who. L
ucas never brought another girlfriend over, and became very discreet about them.

  “I must warn you,” she told Lola, “Lucas is a serial dater. He is mister papillon, fluttering from girl to girl. Believe me, I’ve seen him in action when we went to his house in Saint-Tropez.”

  “A house in Saint-Tropez?” Lola said. “Now I find him extremely attractive.”

  “Lucas’s family tree can be traced to before the French Revolution, when they were beheaded for the most part. The family lost most of their heads and wealth, but Lucas has managed to remain in that world. He knows people all over Europe, people with houses in Biarritz and Chamonix and London. Lucas has a Paris apartment, a house in Honfleur right on the beach, which he coyly refers to as a ‘cabane,’ and a dreamy little house in Saint-Tropez that he rents out. I went once with the kids. He invited us last summer.” Describing to Lola how much those weeks in Saint-Tropez had been a turning point would have been hard. She remembered crying with relief when they entered the property after seven hours of being cooped up in the old van, as though a vise had been removed from around her chest. The place was so lovely, with the sound of crickets, the smell of the Italian cypress, and that sea breeze from the Mediterranean “There is a retired couple who lives there year-round,” Annie said. “They keep up the property, cook, and clean for Lucas and his guests in the summer months. Madame Denis and I hit it off. She taught me everything I know about Provençal cooking.” In truth, Madame Denis had reminded Annie of her own mother and they had both cried when it was time to go. “We went to the beach, went boating, and discovered the region. In the evenings, we had dinner alfresco under trellises covered in grapes. We ate and ate. No shoes for weeks.”

  “It sounds like heaven.”

  “Aside from the leeches.”

  Lola removed her jacket. “Leeches?”

  “There is a type of person that gravitates to the wealthy. Parasites. They might be wealthy themselves, but they basically take advantage of your hospitality. You have to be really hardboiled to shoo them away, and Lucas is just not that kind of guy.”

  She had come to dread the sound of tires on the gravel driveway. Madame Denis would perk up and go wash yet more sheets. She tried to instigate a rebellion, but Madame Denis had no idea what she was talking about.

  “If it were up to me, there would be some serious friend reassessing. But it’s not up to me. Lucas has always lived this way. Then again, as he pointed out himself, he gets to hop between so-called friends’ properties all year long. He skies in Val d’Isere, and paraglides in Ibiza. He’s in London for Wimbledon, in Cannes for the film festival. It’s a different world altogether.”

  “A perfect bachelor’s life,” Lola said.

  “Anyway, that vacation was free, and that’s our only option lately. So it kind of makes me a leech as well.”

  “That’s totally different. You’re a real friend.”

  “I was quite the pain in his ass regarding the girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “He was pretty discreet about it, but his friends were not. They were constantly picking up women in local night clubs and bringing them home.” She told Lola about those suntanned girls that woke up around noon, swooned towards the kitchen, nude under a man’s shirt, and asked Madame Denis for breakfast. “Not the best example for my boys. Apparently Madame Denis was pleased with the men’s exploits, as though they were her own sons. She regaled me with the stories of Lucas’s past conquests.”

  “Lucas is unhitched, French, and loaded. I guess it would be expected that he has a sex life.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t get too close. I don’t think Lucas can commit to anyone for any length of time.”

  “I’m pretty committed myself.”

  “How so?”

  “I love Mark,” Lola said weakly.

  “You have a funny way of showing your love.” She looked at Lola’s beautiful lips, the angle of her cheekbone. “I guess you can’t stay a saint forever. Mark’s far away, and you’re probably peaking.” Lola removed her sweater. Under it, the T-shirt was stretched to its limits. Annie frowned at Lola’s chest. “Right as we speak, in fact.”

  “Hey,” Lola said laughing, “same for you. You love an unavailable husband, and you too can’t be a saint forever.”

  “Cute,” Annie said, not laughing. She realized that everyone had left the cabin. The boat was now moving smoothly along the Seine river. “Everyone’s up on deck, should we go?”

  Lola grabbed Simon, walked up and stepped outside. “Before I get all excited about Lucas,” Lola whispered, “you and him would have to get things straight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious he’s into you.”

  Annie, to her own dismay, felt a burning blush in her neck and face, which she quickly hid away by turning her head. “I certainly don’t think so.”

  “I bet he’s great in the sack,” Lola added.

  Annie laughed. “Well, he does have tremendous self-confidence in that domain.”

  “He’s got some French hotness, he’s got je ne sais quoi up the kazoo.”

  “There is only one way for you to find out,” Annie said with a sigh.

  “You’d have to swear to me that you have absolutely no interest.”

  “Me!”

  Lola peered at her. “You.”

  That’s when she began to feel uncomfortable. Up on deck, it was windy, too sunny, the light was too bright. “Look, I’m not sure how else to convince you.”

  “The other factor,” Lola added, “is that Lucas would have to want me.”

  Annie narrowed her eyes. “Could a man possibly not want you?”

  “It does happen, you know,” Lola said, beaming.

  “Lucas has personally told me that you’re one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. Be reassured.” Lola hardly seemed shaken by this revelation. Annie clenched her teeth at how easy Lola had it while beautiful, unsuspecting Lola faced the wind with a blissful smile on her lips. Probably picturing herself with Lucas, deciding what she wanted to do.

  “I’ve never considered adultery before. Maybe I should,” Lola said finally.

  “Maybe you should,” Annie snapped. “You know what, I think I’m beginning to feel sea sick. I need to go back downstairs.”

  “Do you want us to come too?”

  “No, please stay.”

  Annie came down the metal stairs and went to sit on a bench in the cabin abandoned by all except for a young couple who was giggling and kissing passionately. She had to look away. Could she ever inspire lust in a man again? Would she want to? Ten years ago, the Bateaux Mouches had been for her and Johnny alone. They had spent the nights making love and the days strolling around Paris, inhaling the romance of the place, the beauty of it. Paris was brighter then, it smelled better, was imbued with life force, with possibility, with bright shining love. But at the moment, Paris felt grey and small. The Bateaux Mouches were grey and small. She was grey and small.

  She got up from her bench, deciding the kissing couple was actually making things worse for her. She went up the stairs and stepped into the light, the reflection of the April sun on the Seine River blinded her and she had to cover her eyes. She walked to the back of the boat. The banks of the Seine stretched before her, the Hôtel des Invalides, and soon, the Musée D’Orsay. There was a gush of cold wind and her hair whipped her face painfully. She buttoned up her coat and removed from around her neck her prized Hermès scarf, the one Johnny had given her for her thirtieth birthday with a request that she start dressing more Parisian. This had been his last gift to her. She tied it over her hair and looked at her reflection in the window of the boat. She looked more Bosnian refugee than Parisian chic. Wrong, wrong. She looked all fucking wrong. She made her way past Japanese tourists and found Lola, her tall silhouette against the blue sky, standing by the railing, holding Simon and pointing at other péniches. Lola looked very happy, Annie noticed, and so did Simon. He had stopp
ed crying at night altogether. Maybe that’s why Lola looked so rested, so carefree.

  She leaned against the banister and inhaled the air, crisp and clear. She removed the scarf from her head and opened it to look at the prints on the silk, maybe for the first time. Seashells. Why seashells? Why not walruses or hummingbirds? She held the scarf by a corner, and let it billow in the wind. Simon was watching her intently, his eyes fixed to the scarf like a dare. She smiled at him, and then, let go. They both watched the scarf float in the sky, up and down, gracefully for a few minutes. Simon pointed to the scarf, followed it with his fingers in silence. It finally touched the water and became a small point in the distance. She turned around and walked to the front of the péniche. She was surprised to find herself alone at the very front of the boat, like Kate Winslet minus Leonardo. The péniche glided along the Seine River, passed the Pont du Carrousel and made a turn.

  And suddenly, inexplicably, Paris rushed in, astoundingly beautiful, and she was taken completely by surprise. Colors became sharper and the ribbon of the Seine was like a silk path between the silhouettes of Notre Dame and the Hôtel de Ville. In the distance, the Pont Neuf, like a bridge made of lace, gleamed in the morning light and she felt alive for no reason at all. Alive and hopeful.

  She came back to Lola and Simon and they took turns taking pictures of themselves with Simon in their arms and the monuments as backgrounds. They then sat on a bench and Lola took Petit Beurre cookies from her backpack and hand-fed them to Simon. As the péniche approached the bank, Annie wished the trip had not ended so soon. Closer came the dark, old carcasses of the chestnut trees. Back came her self-imposed limits, the reassuring drudgery of her life. But as the boat approached the banks, Annie noticed that the trees were in fact far from bare, the branches were covered in fat buds, overripe and ready to burst. Spring was under the surface of everything. In a matter of weeks the trees would recover their leaves, that impossibly green, lush foliage. Nature could start over after almost dying to nothing, time and time again, so why couldn’t she?