A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

  “Yeah.” Victor nodded. “Even though it’s less common here in France, I feel the same way. I would want my kids to have more stability than I had growing up.”

  “Mmm hmm.” April turned down the stairs of the métro. “I guess I had stability growing up, but man it was hard being an only child, and it’s been hard having no family left. I don’t want any of my kids going through that. I want to build them a brood.”

  Victor laughed. “A football team. You only need eleven.”

  “Just ten more for you,” April said, gaily, as they pushed through the turnstile and jumped on the train that was pulling up.

  When they had changed trains and finally exited at their stop, Victor guided their steps toward the Champs-Élysées, and April said, “I think you should get him a little stuffed animal. I’m sure his mom already has his clothes for the next year or so. Most moms would be at least that prepared. But I’m sure he’d like a stuffed animal.”

  Victor considered it. “All right,” he said. “Do you still have some time? We could go to Petit Bateau up there. I think it’s a pretty traditional store for babies.”

  “I have time.” April smiled and gave a little skip. “I have fun hanging out with you.”

  Victor felt his heart lift just watching her, and he hooked his fingers around her arm. “I never understood that expression, ‘hanging out.’ I always imagine people hanging on a bar, like monkeys or something, while they talk.”

  April just laughed. “Well, I have no French comparison, but I’m sure you say equally silly things.”

  “I’m sure we don’t,” Victor said, lengthening his lip. “We’re too civilized.” April grinned.

  Upon entering Petit Bateau, Victor asked the saleswoman to show him where the stuffed animals were. “Do you want a doudou?” the woman suggested. Victor had to explain to April that it was a stuffed animal for babies and smaller children, usually a stuffed rabbit or bear head with a bit of cloth attached that babies could hang on to. Not a soul knew this, but Victor still had his own doudou that his mother had given him as a baby, stashed in a box in the cupboard—the one Mishou said he wouldn’t let go of at age three when his mother passed away after a swift bout of cancer.

  After sharing a glance with April, he answered the saleswoman. “Yes, I think that could be nice. He’s three months old.”

  “You might want to think about getting two,” the woman said. “Babies can get attached to their doudou, and if you ever lose it, it can be quite traumatic. You can alternate the two and use one while the other is being washed so that they get worn to the same degree.”

  When the woman moved away, April said under her breath, “She’s a good salesperson.”

  But the lady heard and called back in perfect English, “Parental guilt is lucrative.” April burst out laughing.

  They settled on a blue bear with a square flat cloth body and paws on each of the corners. Victor picked up a second one.

  “You see? You’re a good dad.” April nudged his arm. The salesperson asked if it was a gift, and wrapped it, and they took the white and navy shopping bag and left.

  “Okay, so I have a gift. Now I just need to ask Margaux what she wants from me.”

  April sympathized. “That’s the hardest part.”

  Victor said goodbye to April and headed to his apartment. Armed with the baby gift, he finally felt like he was ready to call Margaux and talk about next steps. It helped to have something to offer Matthias. As the phone rang, he mused that he would’ve liked to have had a say in picking out a name. Margaux picked up on the second ring.

  “Hi, Victor.” She sounded like she’d run to answer the phone.

  “Margaux.” Suddenly, Victor was at a loss for what to say next and knew that whatever it was, he couldn’t say it over the phone. “Are you free to meet me tomorrow?”

  “It depends on what time,” she said. “My parents expect me to be here for lunch, but I can be free after that.”

  “Do you want me to swing by your parents’ place to get you after lunch? How about three o’clock.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

  When he came to her parent’s apartment the next day, Victor wasn’t sure if he were supposed to call her to come down or ring the bell. Would her parents be glad to see him? What did they think of the baby, and what did they think of him, considering his role in it? Victor comforted himself with the fact that at least he had asked her to marry him. He’d done the right thing by her.

  In the end, Victor rang the bell. He’d told her he would come to her parents’ place to get her, so that’s what he would do. Her father answered the buzzer, and Victor pushed open the heavy gold and mirrored door. He climbed the stairs, too nervous to wait for the elevator, though she was on the fifth floor. The white, molded door to their apartment opened and Margaux's father stood there. With a gruff nod, he held out his hand. “Victor.”

  Gesturing inside, her father walked into the living room, expecting Victor to follow. “Margaux is feeding the baby and will be out in a minute. Why don’t you have a seat.” Victor wondered about the fact that her father hadn’t used the baby’s name.

  He sat. And waited until her father said something, not feeling it was his place to break the silence. Finally, Mr. de Bonneville—they had never been on first-name basis—spoke. “So, Matthias is yours.”

  “I guess so,” Victor said. “I didn’t know anything about it until a few days ago.” When the words were out, he felt so stupid. What guy answers the question Is this your kid? with, I guess so? What dad doesn’t even know about his own kid? Never mind that Margaux had not chosen to fill him in on the fact that he was a father, he still felt vaguely guilty about his role in it. He’d always imagined his first child would be an occasion for an ecstatic joy that nothing else could give. The child would come into the bosom of a family that wanted it, where the mom and dad were happily married. He didn’t expect guilt.

  “I know I don’t have to worry about you doing the right thing,” Mr. de Bonneville said. “Although this was not what I would have wanted for her. Not at all.” He glared at Victor through bushy brows as if it were his fault. “When do you plan to set a wedding date?”

  Victor gulped. Wasn’t this what he’d wanted all along? He wanted to belong to this family that would justify his existence, in a way, by including him as a full member of the centuries-old, aristocratic line. He would call Mr. de Bonneville by his first name. Baudouin. He would be there for Christmas morning. Their kids would open gifts and the de Bonnevilles would all be smiling. His mind took off at the vision, but he felt empty.

  “Sir,” he said at last. “I’ve asked her, and she said no. I’m not sure anything has changed since then. She hasn’t brought up the idea of marrying me.”

  “But you’re still willing.” Mr. de Bonneville eyed him keenly. “Margaux may not have said anything, but she will change her mind now that Matthias is here. She knows what she owes to the baby, and she knows what she owes to this family.”

  Victor nodded but was saved from having to reply by Margaux entering with the baby against her shoulder, the blue blanket draped across the sleeping infant’s back. “Hello, Victor.” She walked over to receive his kisses on the cheek. “I’ll just put Matthias down in the stroller.”

  Victor followed her into the vestibule. “I bought something for him. It’s a doudou. Actually I bought two in case he loses one, which is what the salesperson said to do.” He darted a glance at Margaux's father, but Mr. de Bonneville just stared at Margaux as she buckled Matthias into the stroller and stood straight.

  “Thank you, Victor.” She reached out for the white bag and peeked inside, adding, “He has a doudou that he seems to like, but you know how it is with babies. It’s always nice to have other things to offer in case they grow tired of the one they have.”

  Of course the baby would already have one he liked. Victor was late to the game. “Well, anyway…” He watched Margaux put on her
coat and reached out to shake her father’s hand.

  “Shall we go? Au revoir, Papa.” Margaux gave her father a kiss on the cheek. She was calm and poised as usual, and gave her father the same dose of affection she’d always shown, but something in her had changed. Was she truly ready to settle down now? Victor wondered what she wanted from him, but he couldn’t see any great contentment in her features, and he doubted his ability to meet whatever that need was.

  They walked down the broad street, heading toward Trocadero by habit. It was where they always used to go when it was nice out and they had time for a picnic or wanted to soak in some sun. It was nice out today, but as soon as they turned to walk along the Place du Trocadero, the rays of sun shone in Matthias's eyes. Victor still hadn’t seen those eyes open. He supposed Matthias was a cute baby, but he didn’t feel any particular attachment. I must not be a very natural father.

  “I’m not sure where to begin,” Victor said. “I was a little shocked last week when you showed up with a baby.” He turned as a group of male college students, wearing pink feathers and making chicken noises, were about to intercept their path. It was their school’s equivalent of bizutage. Hazing. Having safely skirted the motley crowd, Victor continued. “However, I do plan to be involved in Matthias's life. And yours,” he added, “as much as you want it.”

  Margaux tucked the blanket around the baby as the sun hid behind a cloud. “Thank you. I knew you would. I don’t want you to do anything out of a sense of obligation. I know I didn’t give you fair warning, and I’m sorry about that.”

  She didn’t look sorry, but then he knew she showed only the barest glimmer of what she felt. Assuming she felt things. Victor wasn’t always sure. He couldn’t figure out when he’d stopped being so gracious about Margaux's quirks. Perhaps he was done making excuses for her. But then maybe their relationship needed to get to that new level. Maybe this was part of getting on the path to maturity. Margaux becoming more vulnerable and Victor idolizing her less.

  “Your dad talked to me about marriage. Did you know that?”

  “To me?” Margaux nearly jumped.

  “Who else?” he asked, smiling weakly. “It makes sense for us to marry, right? After all, the baby is mine.”

  She didn’t return the smile, or say anything at all, so after an uncomfortable moment he said, “The baby is mine, isn’t it?”

  “Victor, we went over this,” Margaux replied, weary. “If I told you he is, then he is. But if you want to take a paternity test…”

  He shook his head. That would be a bad way to begin. “No, I trust you.”

  She sighed, and turned the stroller down the ramp that led to the stretch of lawn below. “I’m sure my dad is ready for everything to be tied up in a neat little bow, but I need some time. I’m ready to talk about you being in Matthias's life, but not necessarily you being in mine.” She looked at him, her expression guilty. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Victor answered. What else could he say? They walked to the only free bench set in the shade, and she parked the stroller in front of it. “Do you want to talk about Monaco?” he asked, after a pause, looking up as a group of women jogged by them on the path.

  “No. Let’s talk about you. How has business been going?” Margaux adjusted the baby’s blanket, probably just to do something with her hands.

  So Margaux wanted to talk about his business and keep her own life secret? Fine. He could do that. He could fill the entire afternoon with talk of business. He could fill an entire married life with talk of business. Throwing an arm over the back of the bench, he crossed his leg, his movements urbane and controlled to hide his anger. “Remember the stationery supply store you advised me not to buy because it was too bourgeois? Well, I sold it for a huge profit, and I’ve bought and turned two more like it since you left.”

  Chapter 8

  April sat on the floor of her room and leaned against the bed. She had all six of her father’s remaining paintings in front of her, perched against what little wall space the apartment had, as well as along the tall wooden armoire that came with the furnished room. Most of her father’s paintings had been sold to private collectors, but two had been donated to museums. The painting the Seattle art gallery deemed most valuable had been her least favorite. Her father told her it was the one he painted when her mother died, and the feeling it evoked when she looked at it was of a bleak void so deep, it could never be filled. The canvas had been too large to carry with her and, before coming to France, she’d made an impulsive decision to sell the painting and donate the money to charity. The sum had been considerable.

  She hadn’t looked back. The ones in front of her were most precious to her, and they were well worth the red tape required to get them through customs just so she could have them with her. There were three of his earliest work—realist paintings that showed his natural genius and reflected the good instruction he’d had from the beginning. These were various sizes. A small painting of a dog looking up at a boy, a larger painting of a dock he had told her was from Chile, and the largest painting of her as a toddler, running through a field of wildflowers. The emotion she felt looking at the painting was partly evoked by her connection to it, and partly by her father’s skill in capturing it. She wanted to reach out and caress the strokes, but she knew the oil on her fingertips could ruin the varnish, and she didn’t dare.

  The other three paintings were from the end of his life, and there were few of those out in the world. He had taken to painting abstracts. Although the forms were only vaguely delineated, it was possible to tell what the subjects of the paintings were by the colors he used. The ones April had before her were of their garden in three different seasons: summer, fall and winter. He died before he could begin spring.

  April kept the shutters open wide, allowing the sun to stream in. It warmed her face, but didn’t touch the paintings. She always kept them lined up next to the armoire, away from the heat of the window and the radiator, and cloaked in a protective darkness.

  When she’d had enough of looking and connecting with her father in the only way that was left to her, April got up and wrapped the first painting, carefully, and went to slide it along the armoire. The phone rang before she could finish, and she glanced at the caller. Ben.

  “Hey there. What are you doing?” he asked, as soon as she picked up.

  “Not much. I was about to head out to paint.”

  “Have you found your spot yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” April held the phone with one hand while picking up another protective cloth with the other. “And wild dogs won’t drag the location out of me, so don’t even think to ask.”

  “Oh come on,” he urged. “I told you where I was painting, and I even showed you the beginning of it.”

  “I know, and it’s very good. But I’m keeping mine hidden until it’s done. Anyway, you’ve already seen my other one so we’re even.”

  “Meet me for dinner,” Ben said, suddenly.

  April paused, tempted. She hadn’t spent time with anyone in a couple days, outside of meeting people in class. She was starting to feel lonely, and Victor must have been busy with his new baby, because she hadn’t heard from him since their coffee date. “All right then. I’ll meet you later. Around seven?” April looked at the paintings she still needed to wrap. “I want to make sure I have enough time to paint.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “And wear something nice. This time it’s my treat, and I insist.”

  “Ben…” April stalled. She didn’t want to go out on a date.

  As if he could read her mind, he said, “It won’t be an official date. But let me take you out anyway.”

  “Fine. Where?”

  “It’s near Métro Alésia, and I’ll text you the address,” he said. “Seven o’clock. I’ll make reservations.”

  As soon as she hung up the phone, there was a knock on her door. Victor! April glanced at the mirror over her sink—although why she would do so was anyone’s
guess. Victor was her friend, nothing more. She pulled open the door, and her upturned mouth fell when she saw who was standing there.

  “Bonjour, April.”

  “Hello, Lucas.” She glanced beyond him down the hallway. There was no one. “What is it you need?”

  Lucas was looking past her at the paintings she had not yet had time to put away. “What are these?” he asked, pushing his way in. April felt helpless to stop him, and she opened the door wider in case she would need to call for help. Not that anyone would answer. This building was like a tomb. He walked over to the canvas of her running in the wildflowers and picked it up, his thumbs directly on the paint.

  “Please put that down,” April said. “These are my father’s paintings and they’re important to me.” She tried to reach for it, but Lucas turned a quarter of a degree. Ripping the painting out of his hands was not an option. April had to do whatever it took to make sure the paintings stayed intact.

  “They’re really good,” Lucas said, his voice soft with interest. He examined the paintings on the floor, then looked again at the one in his hands. “You could get a lot of money for these if you sold them. I know someone who works for an art gallery. I can ask her what they’re worth and help you sell them. They’re not going to bring you any money just sitting here on your floor.”

  April kept her voice steady. “That’s nice of you, but I already have a plan for selling these. I don’t want to do it right away. They’re the last thing I have of my dad, and I want to keep them until I absolutely have to sell them. Here—” She gently pried the painting from him. “Let me wrap these back up to avoid any more exposure to the sun.”

  Once the painting was out of his hand, Lucas leaned against the doorjamb with a sneer, becoming more of the man she knew. “Come on, April. Let’s go out for a drink. You went out with Victor, so I know you won’t mind going out with me.”