As soon as we were boarded, Joe spent several minutes unfolding then refolding the tables which were fixed between the seats and worrying because there were no seat belts and no fire extinguishers, or none that he could see.
‘What if there’s a train wreck?’ he demanded anxiously.
‘There won’t be a train wreck.’
‘Dad, there could so be a wreck! One time I saw a wreck on CBS. It was someplace in Africa. A ton of cars caught fire. Mommy said the people were all fried. I don’t want to be fried.’
‘There won’t be a train wreck,’ I repeated. ‘Now will you quiet down, relax a while? Chill out, like Polly?’
Polly started yawning soon as we began to move. So her brother let her put her feet up on his lap to lie full-length, and pretty soon she was asleep. That baby would sleep anyplace, I swear. But Joe was permanently wired.
ROSIE
As Joe sat there dismantling and then reassembling Lego heroes in all kinds of different permutations, as Polly slept and Pat read through some academic papers, I looked at his passport.
The photograph was very good. It showed him looking calm and grave and intellectual. My own passport photograph is of an electrocuted hare that’s seen a buzzard and knows its time has come.
‘You didn’t bring a book?’ asked Pat, glancing up from something that looked like one long algebraic formula. Do I mean an algebraic formula? Something I could never understand, at any rate, even though I’d sorted out percentages at last.
‘I have some novels on my phone, but I don’t feel like reading them right now.’
‘You look anxious, Rosie. Something wrong?’
‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘But my ears are popping and it’s rather disconcerting.’
‘Mine are popping, too.’
‘We must be underwater, then?’
‘I guess.’
‘Joe looks rather flushed. Do you think he needs to take his jacket off? It’s quite warm in here.’
‘Yeah, might be a plan. But he always goes red in the face when he’s excited, and today he’s way beyond excited. Hey, little buddy, doing good?’
‘I guess,’ said Joe. Yawning, he flopped back against the seat. ‘Dad, are we underneath the ocean yet?’
‘Yeah, the Channel’s right on top of us.’
‘Where are the sharks?’
‘We’re in a tunnel.’ Pat shut down his laptop, draped one arm around my shoulders. ‘Let’s all get some sleep now, shall we?’ he suggested.
‘I can’t sleep,’ said Joe. ‘I’m too excited.’
‘You just rest your eyes, then,’ said his father.
Joe did as he was told and very soon he seemed to doze. Polly sprawled across his lap, her thumb wedged in her mouth.
As the three of them relaxed then slept, I found that I was almost panicking. Why was I on this train? What was I trying to prove and what would it have mattered if I never went to France again? But then I made a promise to myself. I was going to face my demons. I was going to beat them.
PATRICK
I got some euros from an ATM and then we left the Gare du Nord and took a cab to our hotel, which was halfway down the Boulevard de Magenta. We could have walked the distance easily but the kids were tired, so we piled into a cab.
‘Magenta – that’s my favourite word!’ cried Joe, checking out the street sign as we climbed out the cab. ‘Magenta means a kind of purple, Dad. Rosie, did you know magenta means a kind of purple?’
‘I do now,’ Rosie told him. ‘Thank you, Joe.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Joe beamed up at us. ‘You guys ever want to know the meaning of a word, I’ll try to help you out.’
‘Rosie, could you keep the kids here on the sidewalk while I pay the guy?’ I asked.
‘But you don’t speak French. Why don’t I sort it?’
‘I guess I’ll be okay.’
She didn’t argue like Lexie would have done. She stood there on the sidewalk with a sleeping Polly in her arms and talked to a now-yawning Joe about their favourite colours while I paid the driver, tipped him, thanked him, said goodnight.
‘You’re a dark horse, Riley,’ she observed as I grabbed our bags. ‘I understood you didn’t know any French?’
‘I know a little, enough to talk to waiters, drivers, clerks.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Madame, monsieur, soyez les bienvenus.’
The grey-haired woman at the desk talked fifty to the dozen and I couldn’t follow a single thing she said, because – unlike the taxi driver, who made big concessions to the fact that I was foreign and who was a foreigner himself – she went way too fast.
‘So tell me?’ I demanded, when after several minutes of chatting and gesticulating and becoming new best friends, Rosie turned to me and handed me a key card. ‘No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Why’s a pretty girl like you in Paris with a baboon like me?’
‘It was a gorilla, actually. But Madame also said the kids are gorgeous, and would we like our breakfast in our room tomorrow morning? Or would we prefer to come downstairs because there is a dining room, and is there anything we need tonight?’
‘Does this place have an elevator?’ I glanced toward the staircase winding high above our heads, three, four, five storeys high. ‘Or do I carry these two kids up all those spiral stairs?’
‘You’ll find the elevator on your right, monsieur,’ the woman said in perfect English as she smiled charmingly at me. ‘I wish you all a pleasant stay in Paris.’
We had a large white room four storeys up which must have been an icebox in the winter but was perfect at this time of year, high above the noise and fumes of traffic in the boulevard below. There were two big beds with clean white comforters, a very basic bathroom, two long windows with fine wrought iron balconies and a view of spires and turrets and apartment blocks. Doves were nesting on the window ledges and cooing peacefully.
‘I hope this is all right?’ asked Rosie, looking kind of anxious now. ‘It’s a room they usually keep for families with children. I thought it would suit us?’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘We couldn’t ask for better. You know something, Rosie?’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to have a ball.’
ROSIE
So did he understand what I had said that afternoon while we on the Sugar Loaf, when I had told him I would like to baiser him? Well, I thought, there’ll be no opportunities for baisering this weekend – his kids will see to that.
We started off the night with Pat and both his children in one of the beds, with Joe and Polly piled on top of him like puppies in a basket. I had the other bed all to myself. I should have been happy, I suppose. At least, I thought, I can stretch out in comfort. Glancing at the squirming, snorting heap across the room, however, in the silver moonlight filtering through the muslin curtains, I had never felt so lonely.
I checked my phone. There were no texts, no emails. So I felt lonelier still. I watched a video on my phone and then replayed it in my head. I tried to doze, still thinking this had been a big mistake and wondering how I’d cope when morning came, how I would walk these streets again?
I thought I’d never sleep. But it would seem I did. As it was starting to get light, I realised there was someone little snuggled up in bed with me and mewing like a kitten in distress. ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’
‘Mommy,’ whimpered Polly.
‘You’ll see Mommy soon. I tell you what – we’ll call her in the morning, shall we?’
Polly sniffed and blinked.
‘But it’s not morning yet. So shall we cuddle up again? Shall we shut our eyes?’ I shut mine tight and hoped that she would do the same.
She must have done. When I woke up a few hours later, there were small, fat starfish fingers tangled in my hair and she was sucking on a strand of it contentedly.
‘Hey, Polly, how are you today?’ I whispered. Pat, wake up, I thought. Your
daughter is about to realise I’m not her mother and then she’ll have a fit.
But Polly didn’t have a fit. She lay beside me, brown eyes open wide, still playing with my hair. ‘Poll, what shall we do today?’ I asked.
‘Go see a puppy?’ she suggested.
‘Yes, why don’t we? There are lots and lots of dogs in Paris so I’m sure we’ll find some puppies. There are lots of play parks too, where you can have some fun. Do you like ice cream, Polly?’
‘Chocolate sprinkles?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Who said chocolate sprinkles?’ asked a drowsy voice.
‘We’re getting ice cream,’ Polly told her brother.
‘You are so not getting ice cream for your breakfast!’ Joe was suddenly wide awake. ‘Dad, get up!’ he cried and hit his father with a hard French pillow. ‘Polly says she’s getting ice cream!’
‘Joseph, will you quiet down now?’ growled Pat. ‘What does a person have to do to get some sleep round here?’
‘You say that every morning and it’s getting old.’ Joe bashed Pat again. ‘Dad, tell Poll she can’t get ice cream for her breakfast.’
‘Polly, go into the bathroom,’ Pat said crossly, getting out of bed. ‘Rosie, Polly hasn’t wet on you, I hope?’
‘No, she’s fine.’
‘I should have brought some diapers.’
‘No,’ Polly said. ‘No diapers.’
‘No diapers, Dad,’ repeated Joe. ‘Mom says Polly is a big girl now.’
After breakfast – rolls and pains au chocolat, croissants and delicious coffee for the grown-ups, fruit juice for the children – we went out to see what we could find.
I’d planned a route. We’d head towards the Centre Pompidou where the kids could have a run around and chase the pigeons and look at all the tubes outside that quite amazing building and maybe even go inside, depending on the queues.
Then we’d go to the Louvre where they could see the Pyramid and run around again. We’d sit in a café and eat crêpes. Then we’d get on a Batobus and idle down the river to see the Eiffel Tower.
We’d gradually work our way back home to our hotel along the river walks. Then we would dawdle through the Île de la Cité, along the Rue de Rivoli and through the busy streets of the Marais. Yes, we would walk back through the Marais, and it was going to be fine.
Pat soon decided he liked Paris.
Paris liked him back. It seemed to draw him out, relax him, make him smile more than he ever had in London or in Minneapolis. But Paris is so beautiful I’d challenge anyone to see it on a lovely summer day and not be happy here.
I was determined to be happy.
As Pat relaxed, the kids did, too. I’d wondered if they’d want their mother, if they might get upset, if this whole expedition might be a big disaster. But they seemed more curious than their father, too intrigued by everything they saw to miss their mother.
Polly often wanted to be carried. So she sat on her father’s shoulders while Pat and I held hands with Joe and jumped him over bollards, on and off low walls, jump, jump, jump, jump. Children have such lovely hands. Joe’s were beautiful, still jelly-boned and small and soft and dimpled. I could not imagine them becoming a grown man’s strong, hard hands. When he grew tired of being jumped, he skipped and pirouetted on ahead.
‘Stay on the sidewalk!’ Pat called after him. ‘Don’t cross any roads, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, I hear you. There’s a store that’s named for you, Dad.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there – Pât-isserie!’ Joe started laughing, doubling up and practically choking, making Polly laugh as well. I wished I could be six years old again, when life had been so simple, so easy, so uncomplicated, not the mess my whole life was today.
We did all the stuff I’d planned. We went on the Batobus. We took the lift up to the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower. We stopped for crêpes, for juice, for coffee. It was warm and sunny and we had a lovely day.
At six o’clock, we started heading back to our hotel. Soon we were in the heart of the Marais. We were walking down a narrow street full of shops which sold the most delicious shoes and handbags, but I wasn’t interested in shoes and bags today. We were passing jewellery shops and busy cafés and I told myself it was all right, it was okay. This was the way to deal with it, face everything head on and sort it out once and for all. Paris and the Marais couldn’t be off limits all my life and anyway, in fifteen minutes we’d be home. It was a mere ten minutes to the Place de la République, soon it would be five, then four, then three, then—
‘Dad, I’m thirsty.’ Joe tugged at his father’s belt. ‘Dad, I want a drink.’
‘You just had a drink,’ said Pat.
‘I need to get some juice.’ Joe rubbed his eyes. ‘Dad, I’m tired. My feet ache and I’m hot. My backpack’s way too heavy. Dad—’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Pat put his daughter down. ‘You made your point. Let’s go find somewhere in the shade then you can both get juice. Rosie, would you like to get a latte?’
No, I thought, we need to keep on walking.
But then I glanced at Joe, who looked done up. We’d walked the poor child off his feet today. ‘Yes,’ I said and told myself it would be fine, that it would not take long to have a drink. ‘A latte would be great.’
It’s not hard to find a café in the Marais. There must be a hundred. So Pat wouldn’t choose the only one …
Joe was grumbling in earnest now, telling us he had to get a drink or he would die. He sat down on the pavement. ‘Okay, Joe,’ said Pat. ‘You win. Rosie, let’s go over there.’ He pointed to the only café in the whole of Paris I couldn’t – wouldn’t – patronise.
‘N-no,’ I said, ‘not that one, it’s—’
‘It’s what?’
‘It’s not suitable for children, Pat. Look, those men are smoking.’
‘The windows are all open and the smoke’s blowing away. The place looks good to me, it’s in the shade. Rosie, you okay?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m fine. I just don’t think that café’s right for Joe and Polly.’ I was trembling, wondering if I’d faint. Why had I done this stupid, stupid thing? I had to get out of the Marais now. ‘Pat, I t-tell you what,’ I gabbled as my teeth rattled like castanets, ‘I’ll get Joe some juice from that épicerie. There’s a chiller cabinet inside.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But Rosie, are you sure you’re fine? You’re very pale. You look like something spooked you.’
‘I’m all right. Joe, there’s a grocery store across the road. I’ll get you a juice this minute. Polly, do you want one too?’
PATRICK
I didn’t get why Rosie was so spooked.
I asked again. She wouldn’t tell me. She got juice for Joe and Polly. Then she took Joe’s backpack, grabbed his hand and hurried on. When we came to our hotel she seemed okay again. So I quit asking what was wrong.
As soon as we were home, we put the kids to bed. They were too stuffed with crêpes, brioches and ice cream to want any more to eat today, and all they needed was to go to sleep.
A few hours later, I went to get a takeout. I pointed to the stuff I wanted, pushed a bunch of euros at the guy and hoped I’d got it right.
We ate with all the windows open, watching traffic streaming past us far below. Those French guys, they’re a bunch of maniacs. They drive like they’re all racing to the hospital delivering a body part for a lifesaving surgery. I never saw a traffic cop in all my time in Paris.
The most romantic thing I ever did?
I watched the traffic on the Boulevard de Magenta. Yeah, I know – pathetic. But in this soft, warm twilight, even watching traffic seemed impossibly and wonderfully romantic, even with two kids lying there grunting in their sleep while we adults ate takeout pizza, garlic bread and coleslaw from a greasy cardboard tray.
It must have been because I was in Paris. It must have been because I was with Rosie, because she looked so beautiful tonight. As the light began
to fade, her skin took on a kind of golden glow, her wild, black hair looked like it had a life all of its own and curled around her face because it had a mind to do so, and her big grey eyes shone like a pair of precious stones.
It must have been because I was in love.
‘Thank you for a great day out,’ I said.
‘You enjoyed yourself?’
‘You bet I did. The kids did, too.’
‘They’re lovely children, Pat. You’re very lucky.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I envy you and Lexie.’
‘You don’t need to envy Lex and me,’ I told her softly. ‘One day, you’ll have children of your own, I promise you.’
‘More coleslaw, Pat?’
Sunday was a busy, busy day.
We climbed Montmartre and rode the little boxcar up to the Sacré-Coeur, a church which had a look of our cathedral back home in Saint Paul.
We got lunch in a café where the kids ate stuff I knew for certain they wouldn’t eat in Minneapolis. Artichokes and spinach and salami and smoked salmon and a special grilled cheese sandwich which the French call croque-monsieur all went down the same way.
‘Poll, is spinach yuck or yum?’ demanded Joe as his little sister chewed on a wad of it.
Polly thought about it for a moment. ‘Yum,’ she said and grinned as bright green drool ran down her chin.
Joe forked up more greenery. ‘Spinach is what Popeye eats,’ he said. ‘It makes you very strong. I guess if I eat spinach every day, when I’m grown I’ll be a superhero. Anybody messes with me, I’ll be good and ready to punch him on the jaw. I’ll grab him by the beard and swing him round and throw him off a cliff.’
‘You don’t punch people on the jaw,’ I told him.
‘When you’re a man, you might decide to grow a big black beard of your own,’ suggested Rosie. ‘Then you’ll look like a pirate.’
‘I shall never grow a beard,’ said Joe disgustedly. ‘Superman and Batman don’t have beards.’
‘You’ll have stubble, anyway.’ Rosie smiled and stroked him momentarily on his soft baby cheeks.
He glanced up from his spinach and gazed at her with adoration in his big brown eyes. Those eyes were bright. Those cheeks were red. A pulse was beating in his neck, bedang, bedang, bedang.
Magic Sometimes Happens Page 22
