A Second Chance in Paris

by Ziv Amit

  “What are you laughing about?” he asks and smiles.

  “Just a thought I had about photoshoots,” I answer him.

  “What was the thought?” he asks with intrigue.

  You really don’t want to know, if you were to know you definitely wouldn’t want to shoot me, even if I were to fall at your feet and beg you.

  “I’m really enjoying myself,” I divert the conversation away from his question, “I’m meeting a lot of interesting people,” and I smile at him, he smiles back.

  “A little bit of shopping, museums,” I try to impress him and seem touristy, wouldn’t want him to think that the most exciting aspect of my vacation is choosing between hanging out with them and breaking up with my husband, are we even still together?

  “What did you like best at the museums?” he shows interest and trips me into the culture trap.

  I think for a second, trying to extract something from my memory, I want to maintain a pleasant conversation instead of just a few moments of politeness with each other until The Beauty arrives.

  “I haven’t managed to go to the museums yet,” I smile with embarrassment, “but I really want to, there are a few paintings I want to see and haven’t yet, like ‘The Luncheon on the Grass’, a charming painting in my opinion.”

  “It really is a fabulous painting,” he agrees with me, “why that one specifically?” Now he really seems interested, even though he’s still a bit distant.

  “Because it has something different, unbalanced, one woman with two men, she’s naked and they’re dressed and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t mind sitting like that between the two, she doesn’t mind doing something forbidden,” I get excited.

  “Yes,” he agrees with me, “a fabulous painting indeed, stirred up quite a storm in its day, the painter’s courage to paint something that was seen as inappropriate.” I’m enjoying talking about art like this with a stranger as we sit at a little café with quiet music, I feel as though I’m in a romantic movie and I like it. Maybe this is what I wanted when I booked this vacation for us. Am I still allowed to think of us as a couple?

  “I get excited the most about artists who allowed themselves to go all the way,” I continue, “artists who debated between what was allowed and what was forbidden, what was right and what was wrong.”

  “That’s definitely the more challenging area to live in, it forces us to think about what we want, what we’re prepared to do,” he agrees with me, but then he turns to the waiter who’s walking over with our coffee and croissants, and our conversation gets interrupted. I’m curious to hear his views and I patiently wait for the waiter to finish, but I’m too embarrassed to raise the subject again so I concentrate on my coffee cup, waiting for him to continue talking.

  We eat the pastries off the little plate and I get covered by croissant crumbs. My foot is bothering me and I raise it a little bit and lean down to rub it, it’s aching from three consecutive days of walking and the Band-Aids aren’t really helping anymore. “Is your foot bothering you?”

  “Yes,” I’m forced to admit smilingly, “I walked a lot the past few days.”

  “Let me help you,” he tells me, doesn’t ask me. He brings his chair closer to mine until he’s almost up against me, takes my foot and gently places it on his thigh, removes my shoe and places it on the floor. Then he proceeds to start massaging my foot with his fingers, a strong massage.

  I’m surprised and not entirely sure what to do and how to react, so I stay quiet, looking around shyly. I survey the café, expecting to see horrified looks around me, but none of the clientele seem to care, not even the waiter who’s busy with his own things and has his back to us. The photographer surely doesn’t care, his fingers press into my aching foot. I’m trying to figure out if this is appropriate and what’s going to happen in a moment when The Beauty walks in, I wouldn’t want to hurt her, I think she has enough women hurting her already.

  “Is this good?” he asks me.

  “It’s good,” I answer him, “it feels good, but it is alright?” I add a question.

  “Alright by who?” he asks and continues massaging.

  “Alright with the café, alright with you, with The Beauty,” I hesitate. Alright with my Tall One who I occasionally think about.

  “With the café,” he looks around and smiles at me, “it doesn’t seem to me like it’s bothering anyone here.”

  I smile with embarrassment, still, I’m a foreigner here.

  “With me?” he continues to talk and returns my thoughts to his stare, “I’m fine with it, I was the one who offered it.”

  “And The Beauty?” I ask silently.

  “The Beauty,” he comes to a finish, “she likes you.”

  That’s precisely the issue, I think to myself but I don’t move my foot away from him and I let him continue, I like the way his fingers feel.

  “Do you have a pen?” he suddenly asks me, while continuing to rub my foot with his fingers.

  “Yes,” I lean towards my bag which is leaning against the chair, get a pen out and hand it to him.

  He stops rubbing my foot and grabs my hand, placing it on the round table with my palm facing up, next to the coffee cups and the empty plate with croissant crumbs. It looks like he’s going to palm read my life line, or my photography and modelling line. He places his fingers over my fingers and with his other hand he puts the tip of the pen on my hand and looks at me, I look at the pen touching my skin and I look at him questioningly.

  “I always write my name on a model before I shoot her,” he explains to my questioning eyes with a tiger-like gaze, “that’s my trademark.”

  I look at him and he waits.

  “Should I write it?” he asks and smiles.

  I deliberate for a moment, I could deliberate for days, but I think I already know what my answer is going to be.

  “Write it,” I answer him, unsure as to whether I chose the right answer. I wonder what The Beauty would have to say about this, I wonder what Adam would have to say about this, why does he keep coming back into my thoughts and why doesn’t he apologize to me?

  After he finishes, I look at his name, written on my hand in round letters. I pull my hand back and slowly run my nails over the area where the pen was, still feeling the sense of inscription on my skin from the pen’s tip. I look at the red nails hovering over the letters, I look at them as if they’re filmed in slow motion, as if they were the opening credits to a movie, with the café music playing in the background.

  He gives me the pen and I put it back in the bag while taking my foot off of his thigh, I put my shoe back on and we continue to drink our coffee in silence. Now I’m thinking about the photoshoot, about how I’m going to be photographed in front of his smiling and inquisitive eyes, it feels unfamiliar and strange to me.

  “I’m sorry for being late,” I see The Beauty walk in to the café, wearing an autumn dress, crossing the tables from the entrance towards us like leaves gently falling off the trees. The photographer gets up to greet her and they hug and kiss on the lips, his hand slides over her behind, pressing her to him. I get up to greet her and she gives me a warm embrace, whispering in my ear, “It’s so great that you came,” and I smile.

  “Coffee?” the photographer asks her.

  “Yes,” she answers him while hanging her bag over the chair, and he turns to call the waiter over.

  “Did you two have a nice time together?” she asks me happily when she finishes getting situated.

  “Yes,” I answer her, “your photographer is very nice, we talked about art and he even signed my hand,” I immediately remove my fear of what would happen if I weren’t to tell her and she’d notice it by herself, I wouldn’t want that to happen.

  “Let me see,” she says cheerfully, but I’m not sure she really is pleased with his name on me. I try to look into her eyes, examine her emotions, and I
can’t yet decipher her, is she surprised? Offended? Angry? Happy? I’m not really certain right now.

  I give her my hand and the three of us look at the pen-made signature and at her gentle pink nails moving across the ink, as though she were examining the quality and depth of the round lettering.

  “Very nice,” she raises her head and looks at me, “now I know you’ll definitely come over for a photoshoot,” she says with a triumphant smile and I smile back with relief.

  Same Café, Afternoon

  Kate

  “Excuse me, I’ll be back soon,” The Beauty turns to me as she gets up from her seat and leaves the café.

  Few minutes before that, we were sitting at the Café, waiting for The Beauty to get her coffee and she was interested in how my day passed since we had parted company, I started telling her and the photographer joined in the conversation.

  “We’re going shopping for an outfit after this, do you want to join?” he turned to me. I thought about wanting to join them, but then The Beauty told him something which I couldn’t understand.

  The photographer answered her and they started arguing about something that was unclear to me, but that felt like it was to do with me. The beauty spoke quietly in order not to interrupt the relaxed vibe of the café and to avoid people turning their heads to look at us, but she seemed upset and hurt while the photographer tried to calm her down. During her fast paced chatter she placed her hand on my hand, grabbing me, accidently or not, where the photographer had signed his name, and kept talking.

  I sat there quietly, embarrassed, not knowing what to do. I felt that though I couldn’t understand a word they were saying during this argument, it was happening because of me. Maybe it was wrong of the photographer to write his name on my hand and she got insulted by it? It seemed like that wasn’t the case to begin with, but maybe I’d misread her? Maybe she didn’t want me to join them on their shopping trip? Maybe she was outside earlier and had watched the photographer as he rubbed my foot? I didn’t understand what was going on and I didn’t know what to make of it, I found myself sitting in front of them, my hand held by hers as if it belonged to her, looking down at my almost-empty cup of coffee, praying for this argument to end, or for me to be able to politely thank them and leave.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be back soon,” The Beauty turns to me as she gets up from her seat and leaves the café, leaving me embarrassed and him silent.

  I look at the photographer questioningly, but his eyes remain on The Beauty as she leaves the café, and I don’t think he’s entirely aware of my presence. He only notices me when he turns back to the table, as if only just now realizing I had witnessed their confrontation.

  “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, just something to do with her work,” he explains and I don’t believe him.

  “She went out to smoke, she’ll be back in a minute,” he continues to explain and we sit silently for a few minutes. I’m embarrassed, looking for an excuse to thank him and leave, I have no idea what he’s thinking about. He’s drinking what’s left of his coffee and not adding any more explanations.

  “Maybe I should go check on her for a moment?” I offer, trying to hide the signature on my hand with my other hand, feeling as though the letters are suddenly stinging me.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, she’ll be back soon,” he answers me and I remain seated, embarrassed, looking around the café. The people are still minding their own business, I don’t think they noticed the argument that happened at the table and if they did, they’re polite enough not to show it.

  “On second thought, maybe you should,” he says and I exhale with relief and get up from my seat.

  The Beauty is standing outside the café, leaning on the building wall on the side of a bookshop and smoking, her eyes are red and I think she had been crying. I stand next to her silently, lean on the wall the same way she does, and we look at the passers-by on the street. I want her to feel that I care about her, I want her to tell me what she had cried about, I want her to tell me what they had argued about and was it because of me but I’m scared to ask, I’m scared of the answer, so I remain silent.

  “May I?” I ask and point at her cigarette.

  I assumed that she’d offer me a cigarette but she hands me hers, so I gently take it from between her fingers, bring it to my lips, take one drag and return it to her.

  We continue standing silently and observing the street, she doesn’t say anything, she just occasionally wipes her eyes with her hands and I wait, looking for something nice to say. I think about maybe going into the café for a moment and bringing her a tissue to wipe her tears and her cheeks, but I feel like my presence here is important to her and I don’t want to leave her right now.

  She finishes her cigarette, turns to me, hugs me and whispers in my ear, “thank you.” She holds my hand and we walk back in to the café, leaving behind us the bookshop window.

  Photography and Art Bookshop, Afternoon

  Adam

  “Excuse me, do you have books about love? I’m looking for a book about love,” I turn to the saleswoman, it’s hard to find bookshops nowadays, but I know The Little One loves to read and I think that this is the right place to look for her present.

  “We fell in love because of a book and we broke up because of a book and I’ll get her back with a book,” I repeated an encouraging sentence to myself, trying to gather the courage to keep searching and not to quit. But the more I wandered through the streets, the more desperate I became and the main word I repeated was “sorry.” Most of the people on the street found it difficult to understand me and what I was looking for, and mainly directed me towards newsstands, thinking I was a tourist in need of a guide book for the city. Some of the people just ignored me, or shrugged their shoulders and kept walking, as though they had already given up on love and book reading.

  Eventually I succeeded in my search and I hesitantly walked in through a big door and into the bookshop, and decisively walked over to the saleswoman who was busy organizing books in the display window.

  “We have photography books, you’ll definitely find love there,” the saleswoman answers me and points towards the relevant section. I walk over to the long display tables lit by yellow lamps and start looking through the books laid out on them, looking at the photos presented to me on the pages, thinking about one scared man who is searching for a book instead of calling and apologizing to a little woman who he loves.

  “This isn’t love,” I think to myself as I browse through an erotic book with naked girls touching each other. Maybe it is love, but it isn’t the kind of love I’m looking for. I go through book after book, nude photos, seductive poses, breasts, couples, leather outfits, I close the books and place them back on the table, I feel like I’m not in the right place.

  I want to sit and think, but this shop doesn’t have any chairs and it’s getting late now, they’ll be shutting soon and I need to make a decision. “She’s going to love the same thing she used to love,” I try to convince myself, but I’m not at all sure. Maybe I should try something new and get her one of the photography books laid out on the table? Maybe an erotic book with skinny women in high heels?

  “And what then?” That’s your present? The more scared I get about failing, the more I lose my self-confidence.

  I leave the shop with the last of the customers, the saleswoman turns the lights off behind us and goes to deal with the cash register. All I got for The Little One is a book of poems, no photos and no seductive poses and no red lips and no high heels, a book of poems about love.

  “Now I’m left with the real challenge, finding her.” I march with the book in my jacket pocket, my hand covering and protecting it, squeezing and pushing through all the people returning from work, slowly walking down the narrow stairs of the metro station.

  Metro, Early Evening

  Kate

  “Come with us,�
� they try to persuade me and I am persuaded. I want to be persuaded, I don’t want to continue without them.

  “I’m just in your way, I should leave you two alone,” I try to resist, but not properly.

  “Come on, you’ll have a fascinating time with us,” The Beauty holds my hand tightly as though she doesn’t want to let me go, “it’ll be an adventure,” and I pretend to debate with myself.

  “We’ll take you to a shop that tourists don’t know about,” The Beauty continues with the persuasion. “Do you think we’ll find her something interesting for the photoshoot?” She turns to the photographer and I wonder what sort of outfit she’s talking about, but in any case the decision has already been made internally about wanting to join them.

  “I’ll be happy to join you as long as I’m not in your way,” I say and we leave the café and head to the metro. The Beauty is walking in the middle and smiling, one hand holding the photographer’s and the other holding mine. On the way to the station she turns to me and quietly says, “what happened earlier wasn’t because of you,” and I smile at her with gratitude, but I don’t believe her.

  It’s the metro rush hour and the platform is quickly filled with people returning home after their work day. They’re rushing to cram into the compartments, creating a type of human wave and pushing inside before the doors close and the train continues on its way through the black tunnel.

  We’re standing in the center of the compartment, sardined between the people, I’m pressed between the two of them, he’s much taller than me and my head is facing the knitted top he’s wearing while The Beauty holds on to my shoulder, clinging to me as if she’s protecting me from all the other passengers. I feel her body heat penetrating through my dress, I also feel her breasts pressing against my back. My eyes are shut and I surrender myself to their physical contact, ignoring the surrounding noises, the train’s screech on the tracks, the other passengers’ mumbling, the woman’s voice announcing the approaching stations, the sound of the doors opening and shutting.