by Sophie Love
“What are you writing?” Cristiano said.
“Just making some notes on this place,” she told him.
He looked over her shoulder. “Raggedy?” he read aloud.
“Hey,” Keira laughed, shielding her notepad from his view. “You know my notes and drafts are private. You’re not allowed to read anything until it’s final. Otherwise you’ll stifle my creative process!”
Cristiano made a face. “But it’s not raggedy here. It’s rustic. Unique. Quirky. Raggedy makes it sound like it’s uncared for. Everything here has been chosen with a particular aesthetic in mind.”
“I know,” Keira told him. “But it’s not an aesthetic I particularly like. That’s all. And no one wants to read an article that just goes on and on about how wonderful everything is. It’s disingenuous. People like what I write because I talk about the bad stuff as well as the good stuff.”
Cristiano looked a little perplexed, but thankfully their breakfasts arrived then and Keira didn’t have to explain herself further.
Real Parisian croissants were, not surprisingly, a whole different experience than the ones Keira had eaten before. The pastry was so crispy and buttery, the flavors sumptuous.
“Oh my gosh this is divine,” she murmured, little flakes of pastry falling from her lips.
“I’m not so keen on the coffee,” Cristiano said. “The Italians definitely do it better.”
Keira laughed. “I don’t think anyone in the world would argue with that!”
They finished eating then paid for their food, before heading out into the rain drenched streets. Keira wrapped her jacket tightly against her, feeling the chill seeping into her bones. Cristiano was just as poorly dressed for the Paris rain as he had been for the New York chill.
“We should go shopping tomorrow,” she told him. “If the rain doesn’t let up. Buy an industrial strength umbrella.”
Cristiano laughed and took her hand.
They continued along the streets on foot, passing buildings in the same architectural style as everything they’d seen thus far. Keira thought she could never tire of the sight of it, the handsomeness of the city. Even the Metro signs, the lamps, and the railings were in perfect keeping with the area, and none of the stores were glass fronted, meaning they blended in with the homes. The only thing that detracted from Paris’s beauty, Keira thought — other than the complete lack of sunshine — was the fact that some of the streets were quite narrow, with just enough space for traffic to go in one direction. And there was a ton of it! The roads were constantly jammed.
“Do you think Paris is always this busy?” Keira mused as they walked.
“I think so,” Cristiano replied. “It is the most visited city in the world.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Keira replied. She could fully understand where Paris got its reputation of being the city of love from. It wasn’t necessarily that people came here to find love; it was the city itself that one could easily fall in love with.
They made it to their destination: Musée Edith Piaf. It was located down another street that looked like all the other streets, and in fact they almost walked straight past it, since there was no fan fair about it, no signs or any real indication that it was there. A museum, Keira thought, for the locals, rather than the tourists.
They went inside to the sound of a crackling record player playing La Vie En Rose. A life-size cutout of the singer was just inside the door.
“She was so tiny!” Keira exclaimed. Even though she was shorter than average she seemed to tower over the figure.
The walls were covered in various paintings of the famous singer, some detailed oil portraits, others more like sketchy cartoons, and they took up the entirety of the walls.
They stepped further inside, looking and the interior of the tiny apartment, the decor having been preserved much in the way it would have looked when Edith Piaf had lived here. Keira really felt like she’d stepped back in time, as if she were truly standing in Edith Piaf’s house. It was filled with her iconic black dresses, trinkets such as a stuffed bear her husband had gifted her, a row of her shoes in a tiny size, books and letters, items that had once belonged to the singer. It was intimate, almost voyueristic, and there was a melancholy about the place.
Once they’d seen everything the small museum had to offer, they headed back into the rainy streets.
“The Musee de Montmartre is next on our list,” Cristiano said, looking at the list of locations Heather had drawn up for them. “One more museum then we can stop for lunch.”
Keira huddled down in her jacket, trying to stay out of the torrential rain.
“I know this isn’t in keeping with the romance of Paris,” she said, “but do you think we could take the metro? I’m not sure how enthusiastic I feel about the idea of walking for an hour in this.”
Cristiano smiled. “Are you suggesting there’s nothing romantic about the metro?” Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her along the street towards the nearest glowing sign. “Allow me to prove you wrong!”
Keira followed, laughing, panting from having to jog to keep up. She loved Cristiano’s spirit. He was always so buoyant, so excitable. It complemented her so perfectly, since she had a tendency to get overly stressed.
They reached the entrance to the metro and clattered down the rain soaked steps. Cristiano confidently marched up to one of the electronic ticket machines and purchased them both tickets for the turnstiles. Then they were through, weaving through the corridors, down flights of stairs, along yet more corridors.
As they went, Keira heard the sound of music floating through the station, growing louder and louder.
“What instrument is that?” she asked, not able to place it thanks to the way the acoustics distorted its sound.
Then they turned a corner and discovered the busker who was the source of the music; a beautiful blonde woman in a silky green ball gown. She was playing a cello. Keira gasped with surprise. That was not what she’d been expecting to find down in the dirty, dusty underground corridors.
Cristiano pulled some coins from his pocket and placed them in the small box beside her as he waltzed past, then turned to Keira and said, gleefully, “I told you the metro was as romantic as the rest of Paris.”
Keira laughed, slipping her hand into his. Then they jumped in unison onto the waiting train.
*
Thirty minutes later, Keira and Cristiano exited the Anvers Metro station, now at the border between the ninth and eighteenth arrondissements. They headed northwards, up a pedestrians cobblestone road lined with stores. It looked like any other Parisian street, until they reached the end and the view suddenly opened out to reveal an enormous church on a hill. It was surrounded by trees, and there was even a carousel at the bottom.
“I was not expecting that!” Keira cried.
Cristiano checked the map. “That’s Saint-Pierre,” he told her. “Ooh, we could take the funicular!”
Keira remembered the crazy train that cut through the steep hillsides in Capri, Italy, and how it had induced an attack of vertigo in her. She didn’t feel much desire to repeat the experience.
“How about we just walk?” she said.
They headed up a steep set of stone steps that ran parallel to the funicular, alongside the palace like church. On their other side were rows of apartments, sloping steeply upwards.
“Can you imagine living here?” Keira exclaimed. “Overlooking this?”
“Climbing these steps everyday,” Cristiano added, panting.
Keira’s legs were starting to ache. “Good point,” she replied.
They reached the top of the steps, passing the funicular’s end station, and found themselves on a cobbled hillside. The view opened up to their right and they both paused, taking in the sight of Paris from above. Behind them were more steps leading up to a gorgeous white church.
“The Sacré-Cœur,” Cristiano told her.
“It’s incredible,” Keira replied, breathless. There was to
o much beauty to be seen. From the churches to the skyline, it was just astounding. “Can we go in?”
“Of course,” Cristiano replied. “It is a working church.”
They headed up the steps and through the doors. Keira shivered as she entered, feeling the history seep into her. There were tourists inside, but also local people praying, and nuns walking around. Above them was an enormous mosaic depiction of Jesus, his heart made of gold.
“Wow,” Keira murmured, awed.
They continued walking through the large church, taking in the sight of an ancient organ, before heading back outside.
“That was great,” Keira said, grinning from ear to ear.
They carried on along the cobbled streets. This area was architecturally very beautiful, clean and well organized. All the stores were traditional, selling art, coffee and books. There was some traffic, but nowhere near the amount they’d contended with in central Paris. Here, pedestrians seemed to rule even more. They ambled about the roads, making cars crawl along behind them.
It was all so beautiful Keira wished she was wearing a long floating dress and hat so that she could frolic around like someone during the belle époque.
Finally, they reached the Musée de Montmartre and spent the next few hours looking at its art and gardens. Once they were culturally satiated, Keira realized her stomach was rumbling with hunger.
“We need to eat!” she exclaimed.
They decided to go into a bistro called, La Bohemian, eager to continue on their mission to consume traditional French cuisine. It was another vintage style cafe, though not quite as shabby as the one they’d had breakfast at. The furniture and decorations were incredible eclectic, though. Rather than art on the walls, there were framed newspaper articles, and ancient advertisements.
“Are you enjoying Montmartre?” Cristiano asked Keira as they settled down at one of the tables.
“I love it,” she replied. “This part of Paris is so beautiful. There is so much history and culture. It makes me feel like I’m on a movie set.”
They looked over the menu.
“We’ve not had crepes yet,” Cristiano said. “They do savory ones.”
“Goats cheese, spinach and prosciutto does sound awesome,” Keira agreed. “But I think I need something more substantial. Ooh, like sauteed trout.”
“Well, if you’re going all out, I will too,” Cristiano said, folding up his menu.
The server arrived and took their order. To Keira’s surprise, Cristiano ordered a roasted rack of lamb and a bottle of wine.
“I thought this was lunch!” she cried.
He just shrugged. Keira ordered her trout, and the server left.
“Honestly, I don’t understand how you’re in such good shape,” she giggled. “I’m growing a squishy bit here.” She rubbed her stomach.
“I work out,” Cristiano replied.
Keira remembered the conversation he had with Bryn around her mom’s dinner table. Apparently he was into climbing and swimming, though she’d seen evidence of neither.
“I think you’re lying,” she teased. “I’ve not seen you work out!”
“Well, that’s because you’ve whisked me away to another country,” he said. “I’m on vacation.”
“Well I’m not,” she replied, remembering for the first time today that she was actually here to work. She was letting herself get swept away by Paris. “I’ll need to do some writing this afternoon.”
“Of course,” he said.
Their wine arrived and Cristiano poured them both a glass. Keira loved the way he always knew what wine complimented which dishes. It made everything that extra bit delicious. That, and his gorgeous face!
“It’s a shame it’s been raining so much,” Cristiano added, sipping his wine. “I would love to see Paris in the summer.”
“But it’s so romantic,” Keira gushed. “The umbrellas. The chill. The way the cobblestones reflect the lamp light.”
Cristiano laughed. “And this is why you’re a writer by profession!”
Keira wondered then what it really was like for Cristiano to have been plucked out of his country and taken half way across the globe to New York for barely any time at all, before being taken all the way back to Europe. His routine had been completely disrupted. He didn’t even know when he was going home. If he was going home. She wondered if he found it unsettling, not knowing what lay ahead in his future.
Then she remembered her mom’s worried expression over dinner, when Cristiano had been so blase about a career. Was his relaxed attitude to life partly because he didn’t know what he wanted to do with it? That he was a free spirit was one of his biggest draws, but Keira knew that kind of lifestyle couldn’t last forever. Especially if they were going to settle down together. If they were going to have any kind of future together, Cristiano would need to make a decision.
“Have you thought about what job you might want one day?” Keira asked.
Cristiano put his glass down and gave her his confused look. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
“That’s quite a serious thing to be wondering over lunch,” he contested.
“I suppose. But doesn’t it bother you, not knowing what you want to do or be? Don’t you have dreams?”
If her question had been insensitive, Cristiano didn’t show it on his face. He shrugged in that ambivalent way of his.
“Not really. I like to take life as it comes.”
“Which is all well and good,” Keira replied, “But you can also direct it.”
“I direct it,” he laughed. “I came to New York with you. Then I came to Paris with you.”
“You followed my lead,” she contested.
“You can look at it that way if you want,” he replied, smirking a little.
Keira felt a little frustrated by his lack of direction. “What happens if my next posting is in, I don’t know, Thailand?”
“Then I’ll enjoy some excellent Tom Yum Goong and meditate every day.”
She laughed, in spite of herself, then steered the conversation back again towards the serious topic. “You know what I mean,” she replied.
Cristiano finally let his joking facade fade. He took her hands. “Honestly, I do not. I don’t see what is wrong with how I am living my life and how I am approaching my future.”
“Because how are you supposed to plan for it if you don’t know what you want from it?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Cristiano said. His warm hands were still cupped around hers. He looked at her across the table, his focus solely on her in a way that made her feel like they were the only two people in the world. “When my sister, Pippa, was younger, she was training to be a gymnast. Every day she would spend at least four hours in the gymnasium after school. She had a talent for it, as well as ambition, and she wanted to get to the Olympics one day. We even moved so she could get the best coach in the country. Then she got selected to compete in the Italian Juniors competition. It was a really big deal. Right before, she became very, very ill.”
“Oh,” Keira said. “I didn’t know.”
“No, you would not. I don’t speak about it often. She had meningitis and spent a long time in hospital. Everyone feared the worst, that even if she survived she would be brain damaged or disabled for life. Whatever the outcome, she would never be able to compete as a gymnast again.” He spread his hands wide. “But it wasn’t her time to die, and she pulled through, healthy. No lasting effects whatsoever.”
“Did she get to compete?”
“That’s the thing,” he replied. “She had been training so hard for a future goal that she’d forgotten to enjoy her life. All she’d ever cared about was getting to compete. All she’d ever thought about was this time five or six years in the future when she would be an Olympian. But after the illness, she still practised gymnastics but for the thrill of it instead of as a competition. She realized that just because she’d been working towards that goal, it wasn’t in her power
whether she got there or not. It was up to the Universe. So instead of focusing her whole life on this one thing, she decided to enjoy each day, each moment. That time stuck with me. It’s shaped who I am today.”
Keira was touched by the story. She could certainly see how Cristiano turned out the way he did after nearly losing his sister. She wondered, then, why she herself had turned out the way she had.
“I think perhaps the reason I’m so career focused is because of my father,” she said.
“You never speak of him,” Cristiano replied. “I didn’t want to pry.”
“He’s not dead,” Keira said. “Well, he might be now, but I wouldn’t know. He’s not in our lives. He left when I was still a baby.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
“Actually, it wasn’t because I didn’t know any different. But I saw my mom struggle everyday. Two kids, no one to help. It was really tough on her. She worked really hard to keep us afloat. I get that from her, you know? That drive to keep working, to strive for the best.”
“It is an admirable quality.”
The more she spoke, the more she felt her own understanding of herself get deeper. As painful as it was to recount the difficulties of her childhood, it was also therapeutic. Particularly because Cristiano was such a good listener, and so understanding. Discussing their differences brought her a sense of peace that she hadn’t realized she’d been craving. More so than ever she felt as if she was exactly where she was supposed to be, and with the right person she was supposed to be with. Never before had she had such deep, introspective conversations with a man.
“You’re very good at this,” she said.
“At what?” he queried.
“At listening. It’s not something I’m used to in a relationship.”
As soon as she’d said it, she remembered her resolve not to bring up her past romances too flippantly.
Cristiano raised an eyebrow. The jealousy she’d seen in him before was there, but it was lurking beneath the surface rather than right at the forefront. “I pay attention to you because I respect you. You deserve to be respected.”
