Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (11 page)

He clears his throat, and walks on. “Uh, cheap cotton, use as ‘wallpaper,’ maybe curtains.”

“And why do you of all people get to be the one who comes out to search the city for this stuff?” The theater is full of able-bodied crew who should be running around instead of Moony. “What about what’s-her-name, the Norwegian set designer?”

“New to Paris. Doesn’t know where anything is. Anyway, rather be outside. They’re building today. I’m no help with a hammer.”

“But doesn’t this tire you out?”

“No,” he says sharply.

“Okay, okay. It tires
me
out. Why you can’t admit that you might occasionally get a little tired is beyond me. I
love
to complain of fatigue.”

They walk into a big three-story building, with worn wooden floors and old-fashioned, patterned opaque glass above the doors. The faint scent of hundred-year-old dust hovers. Up a set of creaky stairs, they find bolts of inexpensive cotton spread out on large wooden tables and Summer approves some small flowery prints, Victorian looking stuff, ninety-nine centimes a meter.

In his perfect, slow French, Moony asks a sales lady to cut many meters of two prints, and they stand in line to pay the cashier, who sits in an old-fashioned wood-and-glass booth.

Outside, he asks, “You been? Want to go up?” He gestures with his head toward the grandiose cathedral above.

She grimaces. “All those stairs? I’ll have to have a cigarette first.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Come on.”

They climb slowly, not talking much, and don’t stop to rest until they’re under an arch on the church’s front steps. She’s breathing harder than Moony when he nudges her to look out at the incredible view of all of Paris.

“Look,” he says.

“Wow.” She gazes in awe. “Your hometown.”

“Napoleon’s tomb. Les Invalides,” he says pointing at the distant landmarks illuminated by the afternoon sun. “La Tour Eiffel.”

The Eiffel Tower looks like a little toy off to the southwest. She can’t help but think about the sewers—the
é
gouts
—near it, but quickly pushes them from her mind. She
would
like a cigarette now, and a slug from her flask while she’s at it, but will wait.

“Are Muslims allowed inside?” she asks, hooking her thumb behind them.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just teasing. Do you go to … mosque?” A busload of Asian tourists crowd up the stairs and push around them.

“Yeah, in Kuwait mostly.”

“Do you pray five times a day?” She’s sincerely interested. Maybe it makes life easier for him. Maybe it’s the secret of his success.

“Sometimes. More like twice. And meditate. Visualize good health. Hybrid Islam, Christianity, New Age.”

“Wow. You could offend huge numbers of people with that.”

“But not God.”

“Okay. Whatever lights your candle.” How cool and not surprising that he’s spiritual. And that he’s totally forged his own irreverent path of reverence.

“You and religion?” he asks.

“Not on speaking terms.”

“Ha. Care to elaborate?”

She kind of wishes she did have some sort of religion. Or maybe a guru. Or something. “My folks weren’t religious. But my grandparents were and I spent enough time in Bible Belt churches to know it’s a bunch of silly man-made rules and lame explanations of unexplainable shit to keep the masses—especially women—in line.”

Moony grins. “How do you really feel?”

“I’ve learned to expect nothing from life,” she says, with a toss of her head and a little more vehemence than she intended.

“Hmm,” Moony says. “But what does life expect from you?”

She doesn’t answer, but his question sticks in her mind like a melted Normandy caramel. Yeah, why is she here? If only she could find a reason.

Whatever it is, she’s not going to waste this time with Moony worrying about it.

“Come on, let’s go in,” she says, standing. She gives him a hand up, successfully.

Inside, it’s white and bright and as cathedral-like as she expected, although with cleaner more modern lines. A huge blue and gold mosaic of Jesus Christ himself hovers over the altar in the massive dome. He’s flanked by assorted saints. Two large angels carved in bas-relief float above the congregation.

“Pretty impressive,” she says, craning her neck back. “I have nothing against churches—or mosques—by the way. Just against religions.”

“Mind sitting for a sec?” he asks. He’s pale.

“’Course not,” she says. They sit in two of the wooden, ladder-back chairs. It smells faintly of incense, Moony’s limey shampoo, and their salty warmness from the climb. Maybe it was too much for him. She has got to pay closer attention, because he’s never going to say anything until he’s almost passed out. It was his suggestion to come up here, she reminds herself.

She won’t ask if he’s okay. So, surprising herself, she takes his good hand. It’s warm and strong. And like she just plugged into …

An answer.

“It’s beautiful in here,” she says. “Totally worth the extreme climb. Thanks for inviting me.”

And for being my friend, she adds silently. Say it! You big chicken. And don’t let go of that hand.

She says softly, “And for being my friend.”

Moony’s smile practically blasts sunshine. Would that she could reflect it back to him. She tries.

It’s the perfect time to tell him about Kurt. That she knows Kurt better than she let on at Les Puces. And that something about him scares her. She needs to hear what Moony will say.

But Moony says, “I have another operation.”

“You do? I thought you were done.”

“Christmas holidays.”

“That sucks. What for?” A knot tightens in her middle.

“List is long.” There’s something different in his voice. Reticence or fear, maybe. “Complications. I…” He doesn’t finish and sighs deeply.

“But you’ve had operations, before, right? You know the drill.”

“Yeah. Twenty-two.”

“Jesus!”

“Yep. There he is.”

She looks up. “Very funny. That’s a truckload of surgeries. You know what they say though, ‘twenty-third time’s the charm.’”

“Heh. Yeah.” He pauses and bows his head. “Sometimes wonder what the point is.”

“Fixing you.”

He gives her a
duh
look. “May never end, though.”

“I really wonder how you do it,” she says, glancing at the false bottom of his right sneaker. “All that you do. With your … gusto and, like, grace.”

He shrugs. “Secret is … gummy bears.”

“Imagine that.” She could sit here forever, with Moony’s hand in hers. It’s amazing. Like Kentucky sings, “Looking for grace. I know her face.”

He adds softly, “Just get … tired out sometimes.”

“Well,
yeah
.” She gently squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. “Are you scared?” she asks softly.

“No.” He lets go and pushes his hair out of his face. “Just of clowns. Scare the crap outta me.”

She broke their connection somehow and the loss of it aches. But she laughs. “That’s how I feel about ventriloquists’ dummies But I’m not a big clown fan either. What can I do? Bring you flowers?”

He gives her another
duh
look. “Gummy bears.”

“You got it.”

TWENTY-THREE

Mom taps on Summer’s door.

“Darling? It’s almost two o’clock.”

“Mmmf?” She sits up as Mom opens her door. “You’re home.”

“We got back late last night. Lovely trip. But we—I’ve been invited to Verbier for a few days.”

“Huh?”

“It’s my friend Fran
ç
oise. Her husband just left her and the kids. For his twenty-two year-old mistress,” she huffs. “So I thought I should be with her. I’ll be back Wednesday.”

“’Kay, I’m up.” She rubs her eyes and looks around. Thankfully the vodka bottle is back in her armoire. “Whatever, Mom. It’s fine.”

“When was your last appointment with Dr. Garnier?”

Summer can’t think. “Um, last week? I missed it because of school.” She hasn’t gone since the second one.

“I just haven’t received a bill from her lately. And she tried to call me the other day.”

“Uh, can we discuss this later? I’m not awake.”

“Fine.” Mom’s heels
tip-tap
down the hall.

She should just tell the truth, that she doesn’t really like Dr. Garnier and she doesn’t want to go to a French shrink. But then Mom will insist on finding another one and on and on it will go. It’s better this way.

She checks her phone for any messages. None.

Of course, she was wishing to see something from Moony. Best to make believe she wasn’t. She should find out more about his operation, too.

The tablet, books, and notebooks on her desk tower menacingly.

She pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and heads out to buy cigarettes.

At the neighborhood
tabac,
she orders an espresso and downs it. Outside gapes the entrance to the M
é
tro. She used to love the trains. She needs to get over her trainophobia. She’ll go back to her work after a brief excursion, some walking.

She counts breaths and steps as she descends and reads and recites the ads. Breathing in for a count of six, and out the same way, she makes it down to the first platform. A train pulls in right away, and, heart pounding, Summer steps on and beelines for a seat.

She’s light-headed and concentrating so hard on her breathing, it takes her awhile to notice the guy across from her. His khaki pants are alarmingly greasy. His long gray beard hangs woolly and wild and his paint-peelingly strong body odor hits her like a slap. He’s talking to himself. That explains why she got a seat near him.

When he pulls out a screw top bottle of red wine, she holds up her flask.

“
Sant
é
,
” he says and drinks, smiling at her. To her health.

“
À
la tienne,
” she responds, reaching across the aisle to clink containers. And to yours.

Whatever his sad story, this man survives. He doesn’t care what others think. His eyes have kindness in them, despite everything. He’s cool and probably not afraid of trains. “Everyone should drink on the M
é
tro,” she says loudly. A regal African woman in a chartreuse rolled headdress frowns at her and the bum.

That wasn’t so bad, she thinks as she gets off at Les Halles, the old food market area, now an urban park and underground mall. Above ground in the quickly failing daylight and light snow flurries, she sits on a concrete wall near the dark cathedral, Saint-Eustache. She can make out a couple of unremarkable gargoyles, warding off evil. As if. Skateboarders on walkways zoom and dodge the sculptures, gaggles of Goths,
racaille,
and pigeons.

An old lady in a wheelchair with no coat or socks is parked by the entrance to the church. A thin blanket covers her that even from a distance Summer can tell is dirty. Poor lady must be so cold.

A lone tough kid, fourteen or fifteen, is skateboarding near the wheelchair and keeps looking at the old lady. Summer rises to head over, afraid that he’s going to rob the woman. He jumps off his board right in front of the chair, and peels off his gold down parka. The old lady pulls back in alarm. He holds the jacket out to her. It hangs there until she finally nods. He helps her put it on, then her bony hand pats him on the arm. The lady smiles and clasps her hands to her chest as the kid skates off coatless beneath a blazing orange sky.

A surge of sadness chokes Summer at this surprising act of kindness. Why? This old, poor lady … where does she live and who watches out for her? And the bum on the train. Life has to suck for him, too. But he drank to her health. He’s unbowed.

How can they stand it? The cruelty and horribleness of the world. Of other people. And yet, that kid just gave the old woman his coat.

To keep her going.

She can’t bear it.

Moony is kind to
her
. He puts up with her shit. He even seems to like being with her.

Kindness is like hope. It feeds hope.

Which just keeps us around to suffer more, she thinks, anger blazing.

It’s not worth it
.
Why does she keep trying so hard to force a life that will never work?

She stands and scans the crowd. This is supposedly a place to get drugs. She doesn’t have the energy to pursue it but is open to the possibility.

As she pulls out her flask again and takes a deep draw, a tall guy in a black leather coat with his back to her catches her eye. He’s talking to a young Goth guy and they’re off by themselves.

Summer’s pulse races. It’s Kurt. His hair, height, and posture are unmistakable.

He has his arms draped around the guy’s shoulder and they appear to be deep in heartfelt conversation.

And here he is again, in the middle of a metro area of over four million. What the hell?

Kurt and the guy walk away. She jumps up. Now she’ll stalk him.

Maybe he’s gay. She thinks of him nibbling her earlobe. Or at least bisexual. It would be a relief if he were gay, she realizes, and not trying to … hook up with her But she knows he is. Trying to possess her.

They skirt the church and the crowds, then walk up a pathway into a small grassy area. A thoroughfare runs beneath. She stands down on the street by a twenty-four-hour brasserie that is brightly lit and smells like sauerkraut and shellfish. People walk in and out. She slips around the corner, so she can watch from the shadows. It’s deserted where Kurt and the guy are.

The two of them step over the low fence on the path and walk to a grassy edge. Darkness has descended, but streetlights from the road below illuminate them as they lean over to look down at diesel trucks and compact French cars rumbling underneath. The guy’s shorter than Kurt and has no coat, just a thin black jacket, heavy black boots, and lots of chains. Kurt gestures at the street below. The guy shakes his head. Then Kurt pulls the guy’s black spike-hair-framed face to him and kisses him on the lips.

The guy says, “
Je t’aime toujours
,
Michel
.”

I love you always, Michel? Maybe she misunderstood. The guy’s expression is sort of desperate and sad. Maybe Kurt just wanders the city picking up people using different names. What a slime bag.