A Second Chance in Paris

by Ziv Amit

“Call me tomorrow morning, we’ll go get you new shoes,” she whispers in my ear.

  “Thank you for a wonderful day,” I whisper back to her.

  “See you tomorrow night,” the photographer says as he gets up to give me a goodbye hug, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  The shiny models politely smile at me and quickly return to focus on the photographer.

  As I get swallowed amongst all the people on my way out, I stop for a moment, turn around and give them one last look. Partially lit by the club’s flashing lights, I see the photographer holding a pen in his hand, grabbing one of the models’ hands in his other, smiling at her and starting to write.

  Hotel Bar, Night

  Adam

  “May I ask what you’re reading?” the woman sitting next to me at the bar asks me, she’s politely sitting two chairs away from me. I don’t really understand what she’s asking but I think that’s what she means.

  I don’t exactly know where I am and what the time is, and actually I don’t care. Earlier I was walking through the streets, watching the cars passing by with an uninterested look, searching for a bar to drink in, and I came across a bar at a fancy hotel. I found myself sitting on a row of barstools, ordering a glass of drink, disconnecting from the people around me, and reading the book which I took out of my jacket pocket. I could hear quiet blues music and whispers of conversations in the background, the bartender was busy polishing glasses and organizing them on the brown shelves behind him, brown shelves filled with expensive whiskey bottles as well as black-and-white photos of the hotel from years ago.

  “May I ask what you’re reading?” she asks me and interrupts my train of thought. I pause my reading and look at her, she looks to be around my age, wearing a tailored skirt and a buttoned blouse. “She’s probably a businesswoman who has just finished her workday and is winding down with a drink,” I think to myself. I tell her I only speak English and she repeats the question.

  “It’s a book of poems, I’m reading poetry,” I raise my hand from the page and show her the short lines of text.

  “Is it beautiful?” she shows interest, I guess she’s a bit bored and is looking for someone to talk to about something, anything, even poetry.

  “I think so,” I answer, “I only just started reading it.”

  “May I?” she politely asks and means to ask if she can come closer and sit beside me.

  “Sure,” I gesture her invitingly with my hand and she comes closer, bringing her glass of drink along. She’s sitting close to me and I can smell the gentle scent of her perfume.

  We introduce ourselves to each other. I make up a name for myself, a name from a book I read once and liked, I wonder if the name she’s just used is real or not and if it even matters.

  She asks for the book with her eyes and I hand it over to her, touching her well-groomed fingers for a moment. She looks at the cover, sees the photo and searches for the author’s name, and as she opens the book a few petals fall from between the pages and disperse over the bar counter by her glass of drink. She gives me a questioning smile regarding the red petals, I smile back and remain silent, I don’t explain about the petals and she doesn’t ask, maybe she’s shy or just polite. She returns to look at the book and browses through the pages for a few minutes, silently reading the poems before handing it back to me. I listen to the quiet blues music and I look at her as she reads. I look at the soft sepia lights coloring her legs, I focus on how immaculately dressed she is, and on her light-colored lips silently reading the words.

  “Read out a poem for me,” she asks.

  I browse the book for a moment, choose a poem, take a little sip of my drink, place the glass back on the counter and read out a poem to her slowly and quietly. She closes her eyes and gives a little smile, listening to the poem and to the music playing in the background.

  “Thank you,” she says when I finish. “What do you do for a living, when you’re not reading poetry to strangers at hotel bars?” she asks with a smile.

  “I’m a simple businessman,” I don’t tell her the truth, “travelling and moving from one place to another.”

  “I’m staying at this hotel tonight,” she gives me an inviting smile, “would you like to join me in my room, read out more poems to me?”

  I place my chin on my hand and look at her for a moment. I know I need to answer her quickly and I don’t have a lot of time, I also know that up till now this has been a conversation between a bored man and a bored woman at a fancy hotel bar, and now it’s becoming a different type of conversation. I know The Little One has left me, I know she’s spending her nights in places unknown to me and I know she’s not replying to me, I also know what to decide.

  “Thank you for your offer,” I smile to the pretty woman in embarrassment, “but you see, I’m looking for a specific special lady to give this book to as a present, and if I keep reading out poems to you she’ll never get it, I’m sorry.”

  She gets up from the chair with a charming smile, and I hope she understood what I said.

  “I hope that you find her,” she puts her beautiful hand on mine, the one resting on the counter holding the book. “Let me invite you this evening, as a thank you for the beautiful poem,” and she takes out a card from her black purse and places it on the bar by our drink glasses.

  Hotel, Room 314, Night

  Kate

  I place the key card on the little table and the shopping bags by the closet and I sit on the bed, take my shoes off, lie back and look up at the ceiling. A simple ceiling, smooth light-colored cream, a few bulbs lighting up the room, I let my eyes wander across it without thinking about anything, let the thoughts calm down a bit after the incredibly turbulent day I had. “I should keep a journal so that I don’t forget anything,” I laugh to myself as I get up to sit.

  “The Tall One,” I suddenly tense up, “he’s not here.” The room is clean and tidy, the blanket is taut and no Tall One around despite the late hour. Seven quick steps over to the closet and I learn that his trolley is still here, as are his toothbrush and razor in the bathroom.

  What happened to him? Where is he now? Maybe something happened to him? Maybe something like, for example, he decided to go sit at a bar somewhere and meet someone else? Or maybe give her a book by mistake? Or maybe he’s lying drunk in a ditch somewhere feeling sorry about not wanting me? He definitely has a lot of options, so many options in fact that he’s not bothered looking for me for two whole days.

  I go over to my bag and take out my smartphone, to my surprise I see a message from him. “Good evening.” But the message is from a while ago, I must have been at the club and didn’t hear it because of the loud music, the knowledge that he looked for me stirs something inside me. “There you go, he’s alive, he wants to tell you he’s sorry.” Really? Is that what he wants to tell me? Is that why he went to the trouble of writing such a moving message? Don’t be such a cynic, maybe he does want to apologize? Then he should apologize, not send me a lame message. Maybe he tried and saw I wasn’t replying to him? Then he should try again. Maybe you should call him? There’s no way I’m calling him, especially not at this hour, what would I say? He can worry about me for a little bit, let him think I was murdered and that I’m lying dead in a ditch by the river. He didn’t want me anymore, so I left, that’s life. Where could he be at this sort of hour? Where exactly has he chosen to sleep tonight? Do you think he’s planning on telling you?

  I hang the new purchases in the closet and look at them with excitement and fear, one is a black leather corset which squeezes my breasts and the other is a shiny black dress which clings to my skin, wrapping and shaping me. I don’t believe I’ll wear them ever again after tomorrow, but tomorrow is what they’re destined for, single-use outfits for one night only, I gently glide my fingers over them, as if I’m trying to determine their worth within my new life.

  I slowly undress in front of the mi
rror, taking off my bra and freeing my breasts after the long day I had, I gently scratch the marks on my skin that the bra had left. I suddenly feel a lack of intimacy. “What if The Tall One walks through the door this very minute?” It suddenly seems weird and inappropriate, as if I’m embarrassed about him seeing me naked. I look at the photographer’s autograph on my inner arm, I don’t want him to see it, I don’t want him to ask questions, I don’t want to explain anything to him, I don’t want to justify myself. “Maybe I’ll lock the door from the inside?” No, you can’t do that, that’s inappropriate, but I shut the bathroom door as I stand naked in front of the mirror, checking myself out.

  The water washes my body and I start soaping myself, careful not to soap my inner arm and the photographer’s round autograph, I look at the water streaming over the lettering. I like the round writing but a moment later I remember what happened right before I left the club. I see him turning to the shiny model at his side and starting to write on her arm with a pen, and for a moment I want to scrub off the writing. I deliberate, letting the hot water run over my arm and eventually decide not to erase it, but when I dry myself off, despite the scent of the soap, I feel as though there’s still dirt on me, and I make sure not to look at my arm.

  “The photographer was right, meeting him and The Beauty has aroused thoughts and emotions within me.” I lie in bed with wet hair, feeling clean as well as filthy, looking up at the ceiling again, letting my thoughts wander around before I fall asleep. Squatting in front of him with the corset on, standing in front of him with the shiny dress on, what will he ask me to do? How far will I agree to go? What are my limits? Why did I leave The Beauty at the club with sadness in her eyes? Where is The Tall One?

  Day Four

  Somewhere in the City, Late at Night or Early in the Morning, Depending on How You Look at It

  Adam

  A hand is placed on me, touching me and I open my eyes, trying to understand where I am.

  I’m not at the hotel by The Little One’s side and this is not her hand, this isn’t my bed. I had walked through the streets and I sat at a hotel bar, and I drank, there was a woman there and I read her a poem out loud, did that even happen? Maybe I’m just imagining it? Maybe it was a dream?

  Yes, it happened, she invited me up to her room to read her more poems out loud.

  The hand touches me again.

  “Sir, wake up.” I think that’s what the man who’s touching me is saying. He’s standing in front of me and handing me my book, explaining with his hands and body language that the book was under the seat and I guess he’s asking if it’s mine.

  Then the woman thanked me and left the bar and I kept wandering around, got on the bus to go back to the hotel and now I’m still on the bus, I must have dozed off. What’s the time now?

  “Yes, it’s mine,” I thank him and take the book, I hold it tightly and look at my watch. It’s late at night or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it.

  The man in front of me continues talking and I don’t understand what he’s saying, he’s gesturing with his hands at the rest of the bus, I look around, the bus is standing and it’s vacant of passengers. I think he’s gesturing me to get off.

  I get up heavily and turn to the door. “Last stop,” he tells me and gestures with his hands.

  I slowly get off the bus, slowly wake up and I start looking at the street and at the black sky, which is beginning to get morning shades of gray, there are no people on the street, I have no idea where I am.

  The man from the bus gets off too and shuts the bus doors, it must be the driver, I think to myself, and I’m stuck here. He walks over to me and talks and explains, pointing to the watch on his wrist.

  “Half hour, to the city,” he says and I’m guessing he means he’ll return to the city in half an hour’s time, but it may very well be that I don’t understand him at all. He indicates for me to follow him and I do. Just around the corner of the street I discover a simple coffee stand, the kind that never shuts.

  “What’s in the book?” he asks me as we stand around drinking coffee, at least I think that’s what he’s asking, since he pointed at the book and asked something.

  “This is a book that I want to give to my wife as a present,” I explain to him.

  “You see, when we had just met, I would give her books, I’d take flower petals which I had found and place them between the pages, so that she would know I love her,” I allow myself to tell him the story with the clear knowledge that he doesn’t understand me. Even though he’s drinking his coffee and listening to me intently.

  “And what happened?” he asks, he doesn’t actually ask, he just drinks his coffee and looks at me.

  “At some point a woman from work asked me to lend her a book and I did, I didn’t remember that it had flower petals between the pages,” I slowly tell him and I feel like crying. He’ll probably think I’m just drunk.

  “And that woman wanted me, because of the flower petals, she thought I loved her and she came on to me.”

  “That’s sad,” he says, I mean, I imagine him saying that.

  “And my Little One left me because she thought I wanted to cheat on her.” The driver gives me an understanding smile, at least he’s polite enough to listen to my tear-drenched voice.

  “She eventually came back but I was already broken from her having left me, and from then on I just ruined everything,” I want to cry on his shoulder but I’m too embarrassed.

  “So now I’m with you and I have a book and a cup of coffee and no idea where I am,” I finish the story and he looks at me, the coffee stand vendor looks at me too, he’s bored and we’re the only clients he’s got at this sort of time.

  “A book, a good woman,” he smiles and pats me on the back to cheer me up, pays for my coffee and invites me to return to the bus with him. We walk together, he’s walking and talking and I can’t understand a word, but I listen to his unfamiliar language and allow myself to wipe away a few tears.

  I spend the ride back sitting on the bench by the driver and holding the book tightly. I hope with all my heart that The Little One won’t leave me.

  Hotel, Breakfast

  Kate

  “So your husband left you?” the young girl asks me, the one wearing a uniform and standing by a counter at the entrance to the hotel dining room. I tell her the room number and she looks at her lists, notices it’s a room for two and looks at me questioningly. “No, he’s banished me, he doesn’t want me anymore, he told me that very bluntly,” I answer her. She doesn’t really ask that and I don’t really answer her, but she’s looking at me silently with a kind of look which makes me certain that’s precisely what she’s thinking. For a moment she checks to see if he’s behind me, assuming he probably got held up on the staircase, and then she realizes no one’s coming, at least not anyone who seems like the husband I used to have, so she gives me a little smile and ticks my name off her list.

  “If you’re that intrigued, I’ll have you know that he was actually obtainable this morning,” I tell her inaudibly as I walk into the little room, looking for a free table to have my breakfast at. “He was using his smartphone this morning, wherever he was at the time, in this city or in this world.” He didn’t bother coming back to sleep at the hotel, or calling, but he was obtainable, I wonder where he spent the night? One thing is certain, he didn’t spend the night in bed with me.

  “Where could he be?” I try to think as I pile two pieces of bread and a slice of cheese on my plate, “Maybe he went to a different hotel?” I wait for the person before me to finish serving himself granola. “That doesn’t make sense, he left his trolley in the room,” I pour myself a cup of coffee and add milk. “Did he sleep with another woman?” A horrible feeling is creeping up on me and I can’t let it go, I have to sit at the table for a moment.

  An elderly couple are sitting at the table by the wall, the one w
ith the cabaret dancers’ painting and I look at them and at the painting, “They were probably like that too when they were young.” I imagine them dancing up a storm and flinging their legs every which way. I look at the man, he’s gently slicing his wife’s omelet while she’s putting sugar in his cup of tea, placing the cup near him so that he can easily reach it, and I start to cry. “It’s a shame I didn’t believe you back then, it’s a shame I left you, even though I came back, it’s a shame you banished me.”

  The smartphone’s ping cuts my train of thought as I drink my coffee, and as I quickly turn to my bag the breadcrumbs fall off my dress and my tissue drops to the floor. But it’s not him, it’s The Beauty asking me what time I’m planning on meeting her, saying she’s waiting to go shopping for shoes with me. I reply to her and slowly finish my coffee. The elderly couple in the corner by the painting continue eating their breakfast calmly, his hand gently placed on hers, they speak quietly. The big painting on the wall still has the women dancing, wearing black garter belts and stockings with their legs raised in the air, as the men in suits and top hats look on lustfully. A last glance at the elderly couple and at the painting on the wall, a last sip of coffee and I leave the hotel.

  Hotel, Room 314, Morning

  Adam

  I walk into the hotel room, lock the door behind me, and all I want to do right now is sleep. Sleep for a day or two or a week. I draw the curtains shut, turn the lights off, cover myself with the blanket while lying in fetus position, feeling the fabric on my body, embracing me. I feel safe in the darkness, as if I’m protected from the world. “Just as long as I don’t discover anything else that might hurt me,” I whisper to the blanket as I think about The Little One. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to arrive. I really want a hug right now.

  Streets and Shops

  Kate

  The Beauty greets me on the street with a warm hug and I smile, I saw her waiting for me from afar, she was looking all around her, searching for my silhouette in the distance, and when she spotted me she gave a genuinely happy smile and marched over towards me until we met with a hug. “Let’s go get you some shoes,” she crosses her arm with mine and takes charge over our shared walk on a street which is packed full of shops. I like walking arm in arm with her, I feel free and lighter, as though the stay at the hotel this morning brought with it a sense of discomfort which is now slowly leaving me. I want to ask her about how last night ended for them but I feel like that would be impolite, especially if the photographer continued ignoring her and only paid attention to the shiny models. Maybe I should have stayed with her for longer, I squeeze her arm tighter as we continue walking.