Hidden In Paris Part 14

Jared stood up, took an orange piece of rag out of his pocket and began winding it around his neck like a scarf. "And why not that skinny girl?"

Lucas burst into laughter. "Discriminating all right!" He opened his crocodile wallet swiftly, took out a twenty Euro bill and placed it on the counter for both their lunches. "You're a funny kid," he said, and with that slapped Jared on his back and left the cafe laughing out loud.

The rain soaked his hair and covered Jared's eyes as he walked toward Annie's house in long strides. He clutched a large flat package wrapped in brown paper under his coat, hurried through the neighborhood and turned into the street where Annie's house stood. Aside from a man in a grey trench coat and a Burberry umbrella who tugged at a Great Dane's leash, then walked away ignoring the gigantic mess his dog left on the sidewalk, the street was empty. Why were the wealthy neighborhoods of Paris so lifeless?

He ran up the few steps to the front door, slipped on the wet stone steps, nearly fell, and cursed his surroundings. He put his key in the door and struggled to open it with one hand while protecting his package. The house was silent and the lights were off. Annie must have been shopping and the children were probably in school. Jared relaxed, took off his wet coat, and hung it to dry on the coat hanger. He then tiptoed up the stairs to his room, as he had learned to do when he came back in the middle of the night. Once in his room, he dropped the package on his bed, took a breath and stepped into the third floor's hallway which was long, narrow and in the absence of window, dark as night. He let his eyes get accustomed to the obscurity as he stood in front of Althea's door, and waited. He put his ear against the door and heard a movement inside the room. She was in.

He tapped at her door and the movement inside the room immediately stopped. He waited but was surprised when she did not come to the door to see who had knocked. He tapped again a second time, louder. A third time. She was playing dead. The thought made him smile. Did she have any idea it was he? Probably not. He should have respected her desire to be left alone, but he had come this far, had knocked three times. He nearly knocked again but instead let his arm drop and waited next to the door.

After a long moment the door opened very slowly, and then Althea's head, wrapped in a white towel, peeked into the darkness of the hallway. She stretched her neck to look into the hallway while keeping her body in her room. His eyes were accustomed to the dark and he saw her very clearly. She looked like she had just come out of the shower and wore a white terry bathrobe tied at the waist. She looked to the right, then to the left and found herself inches away from him. She froze. Then in an instant, she retreated into her room like a hermit crab and nearly slammed her door in his face before he could speak.

He stood in the hallway, dumfounded. Now this was really embarra.s.sing but he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be furious. He was tempted to forget the whole thing, but then his own advice to Lucas rang in his ear. "Be a man. Make a move." He took a step back, and walked back to his room. He grabbed the package from his bed, tore open the brown paper, seized the white canvas it contained, walked back to Althea's door and knocked again, forcefully. "Ouvre la porte," he said. Open the door.

From Althea's room, not a sound emerged, but he sensed her body pressed against the door. Would she be a disappointment? Most women were. Only some of his dreams, once put on canvas, were satisfying.

"C'est moi, Jared," he said again. "Ouvre, s'il te plait." It's me Jared, Open please.

Althea, in a move that astonished him after the effort she had made to avoid him, opened her door wide, suddenly, and faced him. She stood in the doorway, eyes lowered, arms along her sides. Behind her, her bedroom was a model of untidiness with clothes scattered on the floor, covers and bed sheets in disarray. Jared had somehow expected her to be dressed by now, but she was still wearing that white bathrobe. He wondered if she realized how much her obvious nudity under the robe, the silent house, and the unmade bed behind her could have been interpreted as an invitation. Her face showed no expression but she was blushing violently. She was completely still and he didn't know if she was going to scream, turn to dust, or slam the door in his face again.

"I want to...make a paint...of you," he said, in his butchered English.

"No, thanks, merci, thank you," she said immediately. The one thing she seemed prepared for was rejecting whatever he would suggest. Yet she didn't budge; her door remained open.

"I can come in?" he asked.

"No, no," she said feebly and she blushed even more and looked back at her room. She had not looked him in the eyes once. He understood that he, too, had avoided looking at her all this time. It was the only way he could let her preserve herself. Althea, thoroughly glacial from the neck down, like lava from the head up, continued staring at her feet as her lips trembled slightly. Reading a human being so easily was shameful, and Jared, at once, grasped the extreme responsibility of imposing himself into her protected universe. If she was to let him in, then she might come to depend on him. He might find himself bound to her and this was a burden he wasn't sure he was ready for. But if he left now, said "sorry" and "see you later," he knew there wouldn't be a later.

And Jared let himself into her room, without a word, and gently closed the door behind them.

At first, Althea had to contract every muscle in her body to control her trembling. As soon as he entered her room he filled it entirely. His scent, so dizzyingly strange and wonderful changed the texture of the walls, the bedspread, the air. He was tall and his shoulders were wide, and when he took off his sweater, revealing tattooed arms-muscled, hairless arms and more of his scent-she felt utterly confused. What he wanted she did not ask herself. He was there and she was overtaken with panic, a panic tangled with pleasure.

"Attends!" he said, putting his hand up like he was stopping traffic. Wait. She watched him disappear into the hallway and heard him enter his room. Overwhelmed, she dropped down onto her bed, sat next to his abandoned black wool sweater and waited. She thought of straightening her room, putting clothes on. Was she imagining this? Hadn't she imagined this before? This could well be the continuation of the dream. But the sweater was there, next to her, giving off the concentrated turpentine smell she had detected while standing beside his bedroom door. She was shocked by that scent; appalled she liked it so much. She moved her hand towards the sweater and caressed its coa.r.s.e wool with the tip of a finger.

A moment later, Jared had reentered her room with a cardboard box and a large canvas. "Attends," he said again. He kneeled next to his cardboard box on the floor, inches from her. She observed his unshaved jaw, his neck. His hair fell into his eyes as he retrieved brushes, dirty rags, and paint tubes. It took time, and Jared did not hurry. When he was done, he put some of the objects he had retrieved from his box on her desk and finally looked at her. She felt her heart drumming in her chest. She had not moved from her sitting position on the bed. He smiled a timid smile and came close to her. She was as tense and charged as a lighting rod, hoping he would say something soon or else she might have to burst. But Jared did not feel compelled to speak or to break the silence, and when she understood that, not intellectually but emotionally, when she understood that talk was not expected, or desired, that explanations were not needed, she felt the drop of a terrible weight and her body began to relax. He wanted to paint her!

With gentle hands, he helped her down on her bed. Her body wasn't as tense as she expected; her body was hesitant. Jared put a pillow behind her head, and she lay there, on her side, consenting to she didn't know what. He pointed to the towel wrapping her hair. "Tu peux retirer ca?" Can you take it off? She took the towel off and her hair dropped onto her shoulders, redder, darker now that it was wet. He propped the canvas on the single chair and began to pop open tubes of paints and let large dollops fall onto a magazine. He kneeled in front of the canvas, looked at her. "Tu ne bouges pas. No moving, d'accord?"

Althea nodded. Jared mixed colors and started painting right away, focused entirely on his silent task of gazing at her, or through her, so focused that Althea, after a few self-conscious moments, began to relax her gaze and let herself scrutinize him. His arms were wiry and strong, and his tattoos frightened her because of the intensity they betrayed. He had beautiful thin fingers. There was a mesmerizing point just below his Adam's apple where she wanted to bury her face.

Jared painted, and the only sign that time pa.s.sed was the growing ma.s.s of Althea's hair drying and becoming a red tangle of curls with a life of its own. Periodically, Jared walked up to her and lightly combed his fingers through her hair, rearranging it. When his finger touched her face, Althea shivered, feeling more alive in this silence and stillness than she had ever imagined possible, like a long-forgotten seed that finally receives a drop of water and begins sprouting, inexorably.

Avril.

Chapter 16.

Being on the peniche was painful in ways she had not antic.i.p.ated. Annie was fighting a feeling of claustrophobia that had nothing to do with the movement of the boat. She already regretted being talked into playing tourist on the Bateaux Mouches.

This was the first day of April and the weather was beautiful. The boat was traveling at a slow pace on the Seine River as she sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches in the deserted cabin without looking out the window. Lola and Simon were up on deck and she had needed time to herself, giving nausea as an excuse. There was no nausea, only a sense of anxiety, like a shallow feeling high up in her chest indicating that something was terribly wrong. Something was terribly wrong with her.

Lola had insisted that she come, but she should have listened to her gut feeling and stayed home. They had boarded and sat in the large cabin filled with rows of benches, waiting for the rest of the pa.s.sengers to embark. Simon was toddling from seat to seat, climbing on a bench, then another. The tourists were j.a.panese for the most part. The j.a.panese women were so pretty and fresh, smiling. Young j.a.panese men wore their hair spiked. The rest of the tourists were couples, and she suspected many of them were foreigners on their honeymoon. Everywhere couples embracing, couples kissing, couples holding hands, on the boat and on the banks. Maybe it was the sight of all those couples in love that made her feel sick to her stomach. She and Johnny had started out together in much the same way. She wondered if all these lovey dovey couples would experience Paris as an enchanting, magical place and a few years later see everything change, the memory of l.u.s.t and love forgotten.

"Are you all right? You look green," Lola said.

"I get anxious when I'm far from the boys," she said, which was also true.

"Is this since the accident?"

"I'm always more comfortable at home sweet home."

"I always feel incarcerated in my own house," Lola said, watching Simon trot between the rows of benches. "How come I can't achieve that, a happy home?"

"My guess is that your demonic husband is getting in the way."

"The expectations are so Hallmark," Lola said. "The inviting home, happy children, supportive husband."

"And great s.e.x!" Annie had added, inexplicably.

Lola stared at her intently. "I've been meaning to ask you something," Lola said. She checked to make sure Simon was out of earshot. "But you have to be completely honest with me."

Annie shrugged. "I can try."

Lola hesitated, "Would you like there to be something between you and Lucas?"

Annie looked at her wondering if Lola had recently fallen on her head. "Of course not, silly girl. Why such an idea?"

Lola smiled knowingly. "Just watching the two of you together, I guess."

Annie frowned, shook her head and laughed. "Could you imagine me and old Lucas together?"

"Quite easily, actually."

"Eek, don't!"

Lola looked conspiratorial. "It never crossed your mind, though? The two of you have never... you know?"

It was annoying how insistent Lola could be. "Never," Annie answered in a tone that left no ambivalence.

"I would have bet. And you know the funny thing is, Althea thought so, too."

Lola and Althea talked behind her back? n.o.body could talk to Althea. "Why do you ask? Are you interested?"

Lola spoke in earnest. "I happen to find Lucas very attractive."

The first time Annie had met Lucas was on a double date. She and Johnny, Lucas and his girlfriend of the moment. It was at the Rothonde de Pa.s.sy over an extravagant a.s.siette de fruits de mer. Lucas had been warm and charming and from the get go she had felt very comfortable with him. Lucas's date was a beautiful Parisienne dressed elegantly, her hair, her manners so refined. Annie had thought they made a very glamorous couple. The next time she had seen Lucas, and the next, he was in the company of yet another beautiful Parisienne. As the years pa.s.sed, Lucas became one of the friends she and Johnny could not do without, and he introduced them to dozens of pet.i.te amies. It was only after Johnny died that Annie found the nerve to ask him to keep the women to himself. Maybe he could not grow up but she was tired of pretending to remember who was who. Lucas never brought another girlfriend over, and became very discreet about them.

"I must warn you," she told Lola, "Lucas is a serial dater. He is mister papillon, fluttering from girl to girl. Believe me, I've seen him in action when we went to his house in Saint-Tropez."

"A house in Saint-Tropez?" Lola said. "Now I find him extremely attractive."

"Lucas's family tree can be traced to before the French Revolution, when they were beheaded for the most part. The family lost most of their heads and wealth, but Lucas has managed to remain in that world. He knows people all over Europe, people with houses in Biarritz and Chamonix and London. Lucas has a Paris apartment, a house in Honfleur right on the beach, which he coyly refers to as a 'cabane,' and a dreamy little house in Saint-Tropez that he rents out. I went once with the kids. He invited us last summer." Describing to Lola how much those weeks in Saint-Tropez had been a turning point would have been hard. She remembered crying with relief when they entered the property after seven hours of being cooped up in the old van, as though a vise had been removed from around her chest. The place was so lovely, with the sound of crickets, the smell of the Italian cypress, and that sea breeze from the Mediterranean "There is a retired couple who lives there year-round," Annie said. "They keep up the property, cook, and clean for Lucas and his guests in the summer months. Madame Denis and I hit it off. She taught me everything I know about Provencal cooking." In truth, Madame Denis had reminded Annie of her own mother and they had both cried when it was time to go. "We went to the beach, went boating, and discovered the region. In the evenings, we had dinner alfresco under trellises covered in grapes. We ate and ate. No shoes for weeks."

"It sounds like heaven."

"Aside from the leeches."

Lola removed her jacket. "Leeches?"

"There is a type of person that gravitates to the wealthy. Parasites. They might be wealthy themselves, but they basically take advantage of your hospitality. You have to be really hardboiled to shoo them away, and Lucas is just not that kind of guy."

She had come to dread the sound of tires on the gravel driveway. Madame Denis would perk up and go wash yet more sheets. She tried to instigate a rebellion, but Madame Denis had no idea what she was talking about.

"If it were up to me, there would be some serious friend rea.s.sessing. But it's not up to me. Lucas has always lived this way. Then again, as he pointed out himself, he gets to hop between so-called friends' properties all year long. He skies in Val d'Isere, and paraglides in Ibiza. He's in London for Wimbledon, in Cannes for the film festival. It's a different world altogether."

"A perfect bachelor's life," Lola said.

"Anyway, that vacation was free, and that's our only option lately. So it kind of makes me a leech as well."

"That's totally different. You're a real friend."

"I was quite the pain in his a.s.s regarding the girls."

"What girls?"

"He was pretty discreet about it, but his friends were not. They were constantly picking up women in local night clubs and bringing them home." She told Lola about those suntanned girls that woke up around noon, swooned towards the kitchen, nude under a man's shirt, and asked Madame Denis for breakfast. "Not the best example for my boys. Apparently Madame Denis was pleased with the men's exploits, as though they were her own sons. She regaled me with the stories of Lucas's past conquests."

"Lucas is unhitched, French, and loaded. I guess it would be expected that he has a s.e.x life."

"I'm just saying, don't get too close. I don't think Lucas can commit to anyone for any length of time."

"I'm pretty committed myself."

"How so?"

"I love Mark," Lola said weakly.

"You have a funny way of showing your love." She looked at Lola's beautiful lips, the angle of her cheekbone. "I guess you can't stay a saint forever. Mark's far away, and you're probably peaking." Lola removed her sweater. Under it, the T-shirt was stretched to its limits. Annie frowned at Lola's chest. "Right as we speak, in fact."

"Hey," Lola said laughing, "same for you. You love an unavailable husband, and you too can't be a saint forever."

"Cute," Annie said, not laughing. She realized that everyone had left the cabin. The boat was now moving smoothly along the Seine river. "Everyone's up on deck, should we go?"

Lola grabbed Simon, walked up and stepped outside. "Before I get all excited about Lucas," Lola whispered, "you and him would have to get things straight."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's pretty obvious he's into you."

Annie, to her own dismay, felt a burning blush in her neck and face, which she quickly hid away by turning her head. "I certainly don't think so."

"I bet he's great in the sack," Lola added.

Annie laughed. "Well, he does have tremendous self-confidence in that domain."

"He's got some French hotness, he's got je ne sais quoi up the kazoo."

"There is only one way for you to find out," Annie said with a sigh.

"You'd have to swear to me that you have absolutely no interest."

"Me!"

Lola peered at her. "You."

That's when she began to feel uncomfortable. Up on deck, it was windy, too sunny, the light was too bright. "Look, I'm not sure how else to convince you."

"The other factor," Lola added, "is that Lucas would have to want me."

Annie narrowed her eyes. "Could a man possibly not want you?"

"It does happen, you know," Lola said, beaming.

"Lucas has personally told me that you're one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen. Be rea.s.sured." Lola hardly seemed shaken by this revelation. Annie clenched her teeth at how easy Lola had it while beautiful, unsuspecting Lola faced the wind with a blissful smile on her lips. Probably picturing herself with Lucas, deciding what she wanted to do.

"I've never considered adultery before. Maybe I should," Lola said finally.

"Maybe you should," Annie snapped. "You know what, I think I'm beginning to feel sea sick. I need to go back downstairs."

"Do you want us to come too?"

"No, please stay."

Annie came down the metal stairs and went to sit on a bench in the cabin abandoned by all except for a young couple who was giggling and kissing pa.s.sionately. She had to look away. Could she ever inspire l.u.s.t in a man again? Would she want to? Ten years ago, the Bateaux Mouches had been for her and Johnny alone. They had spent the nights making love and the days strolling around Paris, inhaling the romance of the place, the beauty of it. Paris was brighter then, it smelled better, was imbued with life force, with possibility, with bright shining love. But at the moment, Paris felt grey and small. The Bateaux Mouches were grey and small. She was grey and small.

She got up from her bench, deciding the kissing couple was actually making things worse for her. She went up the stairs and stepped into the light, the reflection of the April sun on the Seine River blinded her and she had to cover her eyes. She walked to the back of the boat. The banks of the Seine stretched before her, the Hotel des Invalides, and soon, the Musee D'Orsay. There was a gush of cold wind and her hair whipped her face painfully. She b.u.t.toned up her coat and removed from around her neck her prized Hermes scarf, the one Johnny had given her for her thirtieth birthday with a request that she start dressing more Parisian. This had been his last gift to her. She tied it over her hair and looked at her reflection in the window of the boat. She looked more Bosnian refugee than Parisian chic. Wrong, wrong. She looked all f.u.c.king wrong. She made her way past j.a.panese tourists and found Lola, her tall silhouette against the blue sky, standing by the railing, holding Simon and pointing at other peniches. Lola looked very happy, Annie noticed, and so did Simon. He had stopped crying at night altogether. Maybe that's why Lola looked so rested, so carefree.

She leaned against the banister and inhaled the air, crisp and clear. She removed the scarf from her head and opened it to look at the prints on the silk, maybe for the first time. Seash.e.l.ls. Why seash.e.l.ls? Why not walruses or hummingbirds? She held the scarf by a corner, and let it billow in the wind. Simon was watching her intently, his eyes fixed to the scarf like a dare. She smiled at him, and then, let go. They both watched the scarf float in the sky, up and down, gracefully for a few minutes. Simon pointed to the scarf, followed it with his fingers in silence. It finally touched the water and became a small point in the distance. She turned around and walked to the front of the peniche. She was surprised to find herself alone at the very front of the boat, like Kate Winslet minus Leonardo. The peniche glided along the Seine River, pa.s.sed the Pont du Carrousel and made a turn.

And suddenly, inexplicably, Paris rushed in, astoundingly beautiful, and she was taken completely by surprise. Colors became sharper and the ribbon of the Seine was like a silk path between the silhouettes of Notre Dame and the Hotel de Ville. In the distance, the Pont Neuf, like a bridge made of lace, gleamed in the morning light and she felt alive for no reason at all. Alive and hopeful.