Taxi to Paris (20 page)

I let myself sink back into the chair and gave myself over to my daydreams. I must've nodded off, because I was suddenly awakened by her screams. It was such a blood-curdling scream that I dashed immediately to her room. She wasn't awake. She screamed in pain, but not the pain her body felt. It was a nightmare. I ran to her and shook her. Even if I hurt her that way, it was still better than letting her relive that horrifying experience again.

She woke, still screaming. Now, I took her into my arms, even if that had to hurt her. I stroked her hair and tried to calm her.

"Shhh, be calm," I soothed her. "I'm here. And no one else is here. You're in Paris. You're safe now." Her whole body was shaking. She was tortured by the muscle cramps. I looked in her eyes. They were dry. "Go ahead and cry," I pushed desperately. "Crying helps."

It shook her again, but she didn't cry. How could she get rid of the pain and the tension?

It took at long time before I calmed her enough that she could breathe normally. I couldn't speak to her. I laid her gently back down. I didn't want to cause her any more pain. She sank back onto the bed and moaned again - this time from the pain she felt at the moment.

Some of her wounds had split open and begun to bleed. I saw the blood seeping through the pajamas. They were shot! But that was the least of her problems. I got one of the tablets the doctor had prescribed and gave it to her. If only she could go back to sleep! I would watch over her sleep and, if I saw the slightest hint of another nightmare, wake her immediately.

She was still in agony. She looked at me, but I didn't even know if she recognized me. Then, finally, she sank moaning into sleep. I got a blanket from the next room and stayed in an armchair next to her. If this kept up, I'd soon be able to sleep better in armchairs than in beds! When I had the feeling that she was really sound asleep, I went over to the library to get myself a book.

She didn't have anything simple at all. Most of it was in French, and what she had in German wasn't exactly relaxing. I could certainly imagine that she didn't read romance novels, but not even Agatha Christie or The Name of the Rose? So I took Madame Bovary - why she had that, I really had to wonder! - and went back to her. In school, I'd always refused to read this book in French. I would never have believed that I'd end up in a situation one day where I'd read it voluntarily.

I read, and when she moaned, I looked up at her each time. She slept a little more calmly as time passed. I became more and more absorbed in the book. After three hours, I still couldn't believe what drove Emma Bovary to love that guy.

It occurred to me that something had changed. She wasn't moaning any more. I glanced at the bed. She was watching me. I shut the book and set it aside. "You're awake?" I asked unnecessarily.

"Yes." She still had me fixed in her gaze. I began to feel uneasy. What was it now?

"Can I do anything for you?" I asked rather formally. I stood up. "I bought some soup. I think that would be good for you now." I wanted to head for the kitchen in order to escape her stare.

"Stay," she ordered before I could take a step toward the door. I stood still. I understood her. She felt absolutely wretched. But did she always have to take her bad mood out on me? On whom else? After all, there was no one else there.

I stood with my back to her and said resignedly, "Yes?".

"Please, come over here."

I turned around and went over to her. I stood next to the bed.

"Sit down," she said.

I sat on the very edge of the bed. She lifted her arm, wincing a little. "Don't," I protested.

"Yes." She caressed my cheek gently. Then she let her arm fall, tired. She wanted to smile, but all she could manage was a pain-twisted grimace. "I've wanted to do that ever since I first regained consciousness," she said.

I wanted to kiss her, to hug her. I sighed. The most obvious was not, at the moment, possible. I looked at her. Even in this condition, she looked to me like the most beautiful woman in the world.

"I'm glad you're feeling better." I looked down at her tenderly.

"Without you, I wouldn't be," she stated earnestly.

"I'm afraid that's not all true," I replied with a sigh. "Without me, for example, you wouldn't have to take a medicinal bath this afternoon."

She didn't allow herself to be distracted. "Without you, I wouldn't be in Paris."

"Probably not," I had to admit.

She wanted to laugh at my silly embarrassment, but the pain kept her from doing so.

"You see," I came back. "If I weren't here, you could've avoided that pain just now."

"Please, make me the soup." She tried with great effort to keep from laughing. "Or else I'll have to admit that you're right."

I stood up and smiled down at her. Then I turned around and went to the kitchen.

I arranged everything on the breakfast tray again: soup, baguette, and orange juice with a straw, and brought it to her. As before, she had sat up by herself. But this time, she looked much more relaxed.

"I'm even hungry," she remarked in astonishment. What did she think, then? That her body had endless reserves?

"That's good," I joked. "They only had the soup in liter packages. There's still a bunch left."

She coughed, probably to avoid laughing again, but of course that caused her just as much pain at the moment. "Ow," she said softly. Then she looked at me. She said nothing. She took the straw and drank her juice. Then she ate her soup cautiously. She had great difficulty holding the spoon level. It kept shaking in her hand.

"Should I help?" I asked.

 She shook her head and tried the next spoonful. It all landed back in the bowl. "Well, maybe," she admitted. "But please, don't say, ‘One bite for Mama, one bite for Papa...’."

I laughed. "Of course not!" She was truly on the way to recovery. I could have jumped for joy.

I took the spoon and fed her. When the bowl was empty, she said, "Under these circumstances, I'd rather pass on the rest of the liter. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all." I felt quite relieved. "I'm happy that you ate anything at all."

She leaned back and moaned a little.

"Does something hurt?" I asked fearfully.

"Something?" she asked back. "Everything! It feels like I've been put through a meat grinder." She looked that way, too. I wasn't going to ask, but my facial expression said everything.

"I don't want to talk about it." She closed herself off again.

"You don't have to," I reassured her. I understood. Who could ask that of her! I, too, would rather think about something else. "Would you like to sleep some more now, or would you prefer to go right for the bathtub torture?" I asked as cheerfully as if she had to choose between oysters and caviar.

She moaned - somewhat exaggeratedly. "Can't I take the bath tomorrow?" she suggested hopefully.

"If you do it today, you'll feel much better tomorrow."

She sighed. "I understand," she admitted. "But then right away. I've already slept enough anyhow."

She'd see that differently after her bath! "I don't want to cause you any unnecessary pain," I began. "Can you stand up by yourself? I'll support you then."

"Yes," she said heroically. "I'll try." She managed it, and with a little help from me, we made it to the bathroom. I opened the faucets. Water shot out in fountains.

I took off her pajamas and helped her into the tub. When the water touched her wounds, she groaned horribly. "You don't have to stay in long." I could almost feel her pain as though it were my own. "Only fifteen minutes. Can you tolerate that?"

She nodded with gritted teeth. The way it looked, I would've thought she had to tolerate a lot more than a bath.

After the bath was over and I'd put her to bed in a fresh pair of pajamas, she fell right back to sleep. And she thought she'd had enough sleep already!

She improved visibly. Her bruises changed color to green and then to a pale yellow. Fearfully, I had determined that she also had wounds on her face. She would have scars, if not terribly large ones. But I was worried about her self-consciousness. So much for her depended on her appearance. I wondered about myself. I was worried that she wouldn't be able to go back to work?

I sat in the small salon and read. Since she was doing better, I no longer needed to observe her constantly.

Unexpectedly, she suddenly appeared in the doorway. She even had her white robe on. She came in, smiling. She moved very slowly. Her graceful walk had not yet returned. With some effort, she sat down in the overstuffed chair. "Why are you sitting over there?" she asked.

I pointed to her book and her reading glasses. "That's obviously your spot," I explained.

She looked at me. Then she smiled again. It wasn't the same as before, but it was getting close. "I just wanted to see what you do while I sleep."

"You can see for yourself," I smiled. "I have wild orgies."

She seemed to find my slightly sarcastic tone a bit indecent, but she smiled anyway. "Yes, I can see that." Her gaze wandered through the room. I had the impression that she only now fully understood where she was. She took in the room and its furnishings with loving recognition. I could tell she was truly at home here. She sat up straight. "I'm going to get dressed."

"You're still too weak!" I protested with dismay. "You have to stay in bed for another couple of days."

"No," she countered solidly. "Today I'll stay home, but tomorrow I want to see for myself that I'm in Paris."

She wanted to go out? I'd gotten so used to her not going out that I'd never have thought of it on my own. But here, in Paris, that prohibition of course did not exist. She didn't have any clients here. Here, she was free. I noticed that I'd never even thought about whether she worked while in Paris. When I learned that she had an apartment here, I might've assumed automatically that she did. I really should be ashamed of myself!

"You'll overexert yourself." I was honestly worried about her. She seemed to be so hungry for life. And she was still very weak, even if she didn't want to admit it.

She laughed. "You would pack me in cotton if you could!"

"Yes," I said, "I would."

"It doesn't have to be the Ritz, you know. The bistro around the corner would do as well. Would that make you feel better?"

"Yes." She hadn't really quite convinced me yet, and she knew it.

"If you really want to go to the trouble, you can accompany me everywhere I go," she suggested congenially.

I laughed. "I was planning on it. You're not going to get rid of me that easily. Not in your condition."

She smiled to herself. "To listen to you, I'd think I was about to give birth."

I looked at her with interest, imagining her in the latter stages of pregnancy. Even then, she'd look absolutely stunning.

"Tsk, tsk," she said, shaking her head. "You don't expect me to fulfill that wish, now, do you?"

"What wish?" I asked, irritated.

"Seeing me pregnant," she said, amused.

I looked away. "I think you're well enough." She'd barely gotten out of bed, and already she was making fun of me again!

She stood up laboriously. "I'm going to start getting dressed. I have to practice for tomorrow." She looked back at me. "Would you like to help me?" Impossible! She was flirting with me!

"No," I declined obstinately. "I think you can do that by yourself."

"Yes," she agreed jokingly. "But with you, I'd have a lot more fun for the pain."

"Have fun," I replied sourly.

Still smiling a little, she made her way slowly out. Who was I, then?

After a rather long while, she returned. Good thing I'd thought to pack loose clothing for her. She was wearing the blue shirt that I'd loved on her so much. I was sure she'd had the jeans for years. They conformed to her figure perfectly. That set a few things going inside me. I swallowed. She wasn't even halfway done recovering, and already I was thinking thoughts like that!

I eyed her face. The blue of the shirt actually brought out the changing colors of her bruises. She saw my expression. "Oh, that," she glossed over my impression. "That can be corrected with a little makeup."

Corrected with a little makeup? She looked remarkably like Frankenstein's monster. But of course I couldn't tell her that.

"If you think so," I said, with as little doubt in my voice as possible.

"Yes," she assured me harmlessly. "I have some experience with that."

I almost fell out of my chair. Experience? With what? With makeup, or with "correcting" the marks that the "tastes" of her customers had left behind? I knew so little about her life. Except for the one time, she'd never really talked about it. She had always spared me that. I thought about the handcuffs around her wrists. Were those also marks that she normally "corrected" with makeup?

She hadn't, thank God, been watching me; instead, she'd had to devote her full attention to sitting down in her overstuffed chair. "So, here I'll stay," she announced now.

I had to pull myself from my dreary thoughts. "Until tomorrow?" I tried to joke.

She was already excited about it. I could see that clearly. "If necessary. In any case, it's better than lying in bed. That was starting to get boring."

She was bored in bed? I could fix that! Just hang in there!

Against her best will, she had to admit that staying up for a long time still required too much effort for her. She excused herself. Hours later, when I went to bed, she was sleeping quietly for the first time in days. I watched her for awhile, until I could feel the love welling up inside me. She didn't need to use her body at all to make me melt. She was so unendingly lovable. If only she would believe that herself!

Then next morning, I woke early, but she was already up. When I went into the bathroom, I found her in the tub. I didn't know where she'd gotten this boundless energy. Three days before, she'd barely been able to lift a finger. I smiled and knelt down next to her. "Is it still worth it for me to make coffee, or are we going right to the bistro?"

"I'm afraid it's still worth it," she stated rather remorsefully. "It'll be awhile before I'm done with all my preparations in here."