The Clasp (20 page)

W
hen Grey learned that Kezia was coming to Paris, she and Paul insisted on putting her up. Apparently the wedding had shaved a couple of years off their casual estrangement. Kezia had forgotten how this conversation went. When Grey insisted, you had to go along with it. You just had to. Not because she was cool like Olivia or pushy like Caroline but because you got the sense that you would break her heart if you argued. In college, if you didn't want to borrow a dress she wanted you to borrow (because the dress dragged on the ground due to the fact that its rightful owner was eight feet tall), you still managed to walk across campus twenty minutes later, dress folded over one arm.

“And I'm picking you up at the airport,” Grey beamed through the phone.

There were few cities left on the planet where this offer wasn't an extreme one.

“That's madness. I'll expense a cab. Or take the Métro.”

“The RER from the airport is disgusting.”

“I'm sure it's been done.”

“You have to touch the doors to open them. And pull down the seats. And push to exit. Paris is a whole city of latches and buttons. Nothing here is automatic.”

Kezia was beginning to understand the French propensity for xenophobia.

“Do you not take the Métro every day?”

“I bring a tub of hand sanitizer,” she said. “You know the French use the Métro as a urinal? Also, you'll have bags.”

Grey was always polite, but this was more desperation than politeness. Right or wrong, Kezia was not permitted to have opinions about Paris and she realized why: She was participating in a city from which Grey herself felt shunned.

“One bag but fine. Thank you. How long have you guys been there, anyway?”

“It'll be seven months next week.”

“Are you making friends? How are the other reindeer treating you?”

“Oh, totally. We have lots of friends.”

“See? Parisians warm up once they realize you're not a dipshit.”

“Oh well, no, obviously we don't have any
French
friends.”

Grey's social circle consisted exclusively of fellow expats. So it wasn't only that her French never improved, but that her French know-how never improved. Vocabulary you can teach yourself, but know-how is osmotic. She had no real reason to interact with actual, living French people. Or, for that matter, dead ones. Their first apartment, paid for by Paul's firm for three weeks, was a clean, soulless flat overlooking Père-Lachaise Cemetery. Paul liked to stumble through the cobblestone hills, hoping to smack into Chopin during his “Easter egg hunts of the damned.”

“You'll love where we live now. Our old apartment was creepy.
The elevator was the size of the coffins across the street. You know, sometimes I thought I heard construction or, like, woodpeckers. And then I realized it was the sound of lettering being carved into the headstones.”

“Dark.”

“French graves are super tacky, you know. They're covered in plastic flowers.”

“Yeah, but they have Cézanne and Truffaut and Descartes.
Tout les cartes
.” “So?”

“So I think they're secure enough as a nation to use plastic flowers. I mean, they have a billion years of history; they can do what they want with it.”

“But that's the thing!” Grey was screaming now. “They get to pick and choose what's sacred. It's not like America, where everyone dresses high/low but it's up to you which shirt is Chanel and which sweater is Zara. There's a right answer here, I'm telling you. It's more like—oh, you bought your soap in bulk?
Intéressant
. Or oh, you paid thirty euros for this teakettle? It's so
original
. But they keep all the answers in a locked vault and then they toss the key into the Seine. Okay, I have to go, Paul wants to go to a thing at the Pompidou. See you Monday.”

Grey was standing outside her car, waiting for Kezia at Arrivals. The last time Kezia had been in Charles de Gaulle, she had been preoccupied with smuggling a bag full of elk bones back to New York. According to Rachel, if customs stopped you, they merely confiscated your contraband and sent you on your way. Smiling tightly at a Roissy security guard, Kezia felt a retroactive shudder for what might have happened.

“And they all speak English,” Grey ranted as they merged
onto the highway, “every last one, even the bag ladies—but they pretend they don't.”

The bark of a Virgin Radio DJ became louder once Grey closed their windows. The ads were lightning fast but Kezia caught an enthusiastic one for mostofit (“moose-to-feet!”). It had been a while since she had seen or heard of Victor's (apparently former) employer. Maybe mostofit was like
Friends
. Big in France for all eternity.

“Yes, I know they speak English.”

Grey shot her a look like she didn't have the first clue. Kezia couldn't help but sound exasperated. The Paris-bashing was getting on her nerves. She really had been here before. She knew how to greet with kisses, how to jaywalk with confidence, which destinations were walkable and which weren't. She knew to be selective when ordering “the special.” In New York, “the special” was the freshest thing on the chalkboard. In Paris, it could be whatever had been sitting in the fridge the longest.

Grey perked up momentarily when they stopped to get gas. She insisted Kezia accompany her into the glass structure while she paid. She wanted her to see “the best part about France.”

“The best part about France is in this gas station?”

Through the glass, Kezia could see prepackaged sandwiches and a poster of a girl giving head to an ice cream bar. Ten minutes later, she and Grey emerged with two cappuccinos made by an automatic dispenser, served in thin foam cups.

“Good.” Kezia blew and sipped and nodded.

“My obstetrician says I'm allowed to have one cup a day.” She smiled impishly. “Wine, too. French doctors are the second-best part of France.”

Since the apartment with the coffin elevator, Grey and Paul had found a more permanent residence in the Marais.
Advertisements for Chanel and A.P.C. were stuck to the side of a Dumpster and even the Dumpster was cute.

“Paul says it's like the West Village and the East Village had a baby.”

“So like the Village.”

“Here we are.” Grey pulled sharply on the steering wheel. “
Voilà!
”

The street was small and monochromatic from top to bottom. The stone of the buildings blended straight into the slate-colored sky. Delicate cuts of iron dotted the
pierre de taille
façades. Paul and Grey's apartment was above a
coiffeur
and a store that appeared to be transplanted from Portland, Oregon, selling rompers and felt seahorses. Grey parked with a tire on the curb.

The new apartment, she warned Kezia, was smaller than the first. Oh, and they had to ascend some very narrow steps. Oh, and it was not advisable to lean on the railing.

“Got it.” Kezia smiled. “Now that you've kidnapped me, the truth comes out.”

As Grey helped her yank her suitcase from the trunk of the Peugeot, a woman in a sundress, sunglasses, and a slash of red lipstick rode by on her bicycle. No wonder Grey was so unhappy. Parisians were glamorously tattered and superior down to their tile grout. In New York, at least Kezia could go home, knowing that the most elegant person she passed that day was also pulling sweatpants out of her pajama drawer. French dressers only came with shallow lingerie drawers.

Grey turned the key to the apartment and kicked, disturbing an oriental runner that had to be kicked back into place. The smell of roast chicken, lemon, and rosemary came wafting from the kitchen and into the hallway where Grey flung off her shoes. Kezia followed her lead. Paul emerged, keeping his carcass-covered
hands in the air as he hugged her. He always looked the same no matter what. Like a Ken doll.

“
Bienvenue!
How neat is this that we get to see you again so soon?”

“Pretty neat,” Kezia said. And she meant it.

It was like time-traveling back a decade, this much Paul-and-Grey exposure.

“Celery rémoulade?”

Atop a half-sized refrigerator were a series of plastic Arcs de Triomphe, lined up end-to-end so that they resembled their tchotchke cousin the Loch Ness monster. Beside the Arcs was a plastic trough of what appeared to be albino brains. Paul reached for it.

“It's actually fantastic,” said Grey.

“Maybe later.”

“It's also actually a vegetable. You know the French don't believe in kale? Same thing with corn. There's no corn in France right now.”

“That's not right.” Kezia looked to Paul. “Can that be right?”

Paul shrugged. “There's definitely no baby corn.”

“Is baby corn a staple of anywhere?” Kezia smiled and peeled the tracking sticker from her luggage. “I thought they figured out too much kale will kill you anyway.”

“I will give you fifty euros if you can find me a salad without a radish in it.” Grey shook the container of brains. “It's all chicken and radishes. Fifty.”

“I can't take your money, you guys.”

She could. She would. Happily. Paul had struck it rich at a hedge fund years ago and parlayed this experience into other lucrative ventures with an impressive deftness. He had joined Caroline and Olivia in the ranks of people indelibly set for life.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Grey. “We forgot to discuss this Victor situation!”

His name made her senses perk up. Victor was the silent reason she was standing here now, arguing about vegetables.

“Caroline called, freaking out because I guess she and Felix had lunch with Victor.”

“In New York? When was this? Is he okay?”

Grey smiled. “You care a lot about Victor all of a sudden.”

“I'm just confused, that's all. I thought they were coming here.”

“Honeymoon's off.” Paul looked solemn. “Felix's mom died.”

“Oh my God. When?”

“Sunday night, apparently. They were all packed to go and then?
Elle mange les pissenlits par la racine.
”

“And in the middle of all this, Victor apparently stormed out of the restaurant after threatening Caroline or something.”

“He
threatened
her?”

“Well, he recited the chorus to ‘Common People.'”

“The Pulp song? That makes no sense.”

“I know.” Paul shook his head. “I don't think of Jarvis Cocker as particularly menacing, myself.”

“No, I mean, why? Since when does Victor leave a free lunch? Or be a dick to the bereaved? And why would they get on a plane to New York when they were supposed to get on a plane to here? And why have lunch with Victor at all?”

She had so many questions and a hunch that they all had the same answer. “Caroline doesn't really like Victor.”

“That's mean,” Grey scolded.

“It's not mean, it's true.” Kezia yawned, the “u” in “true” widening her mouth.

“Tired?” Paul asked. “You must be
absolument fatigué avec
décalage horaire
.”

“I'm okay. Where do I put this?”

She lifted her suitcase slightly off the ground.

“In your room . . . where we have a surprise for you!”

Paul and Grey linked arms and grinned. Kezia momentarily stopped speculating about Victor's whereabouts, his face replaced with an image of a basket of cheese and outlet converters. Maybe some of those macaroons Caroline used to have shipped to her.

“You'll either love it or hate it,” said Paul.

“Those are my two options?”

“Yes,” Paul said. “It's the Howard Stern of surprises.”

“I think she'll love it.” Grey winked at Paul, who winked back.

“That's cute. You guys are having a joint seizure.”

“Go on.” Paul gestured with his shoulders as he washed chicken from his hands.