Authors: Michelle Gable
“Let’s say between six-thirty and seven,” she said, walking toward her bedroom. “I am not exactly presentable.”
“I am ready when you are. See you soon, ma petite.”
“‘Ma petite’? I am hardly young. Au ’voir, Luc.”
April turned off her phone and chucked it onto the bed. She immediately dived into the bureau, wondering if she had enough time to swing by the Galeries Lafayette and find something more festive than her boring American shopping-mall clothes. A fireman’s ball was basically a trumped-up block party, but it was still a block party in Paris.
After throwing on a sparkly embellished skirt (
Le Comte
would be proud), and dumbing it down with a black tee, April grabbed her purse and headed out onto the street. She decided to hoof it to Luc’s although it was faster to Métro or cab. There was something April wanted to see, and it was not just more of Paris.
Chapitre XLVII
April left her building and crossed down into the Eighth Arrondissement, veering toward the Seine.
Her route was deliberate, directed toward the rue Royale, a short blip of a street between the place de la Madeleine and the place de la Concorde, not far from the purveyor of Chelsea’s new overpriced handbags. As she approached, April’s pace picked up. A smile snuck onto her lips.
She turned a corner and there it was: Maxim’s. April stopped and took in its red awning, wood facade, and swirly gold lettering. She imagined Marthe perched inside the window. The Cossacks came in. They spilled out. Then April saw Marthe tripping down the street and into the arms of Pujol.
“I would’ve given you the money,” she said.
A twenty-something Parisian hipster paused, a questioning look on his face. April blushed and waved him by.
Reluctantly pulling herself from the scene of so many of Marthe’s epistles, April took another quick turn and made her way through place de la Concorde, the largest square in Paris. A temporary grandstand stood in the middle, built for the Bastille Day festivities and decked out in blue, white, and red awnings. The area around it was calm, almost desolate, and April could not picture the liveliness that would overtake it the next day. There would be tanks, fire engines, helicopters, planes, and marching troops. Cheers and fireworks would ring throughout the city.
April moved slowly along the Seine, watching the barges float by and the Bastille Day flags flap in the breeze. She perused the
bouquinistes
, inspecting novels and pictures she had no intention of purchasing. Time and worry grew faint.
As she meandered, Luc sent a series of texts inquiring as to when she might arrive. At least someone was attempting communication on her birthday. April smirked (he taught her how) and ignored the messages. He could wait.
Flicking through a set of Arc de Triomphe prints in one of the bookstalls, April considered the ways she might later harangue Luc for his impatience. He complained she took life too seriously, yet now he was annoyed with her lollygagging. As April scripted a list of snappy retorts, her fingers hit a six-by-six watercolor wedged between all the eight-by-tens. She lifted it from its bin, expecting another Parisian landmark. Instead it was the New York skyline. April jumped. The painting fell to the ground.
“Qu’est-ce que vous faites?” the vendor bellowed, veins in his neck swelling.
“I live there,” April said in plain, ugly English as she bent down to pick it up.
He barked out an expletive or two.
“I live there,” she said again, this time to herself. It didn’t seem real. The city she loved, her home, felt so far away.
After paying twenty euros, overpriced but April was in no mood to haggle, she rolled up the picture and shoved it into her handbag. April continued onward to Luc’s, the awkward bulge of New York pressing against her side.
Luc’s apartment was easy to find. Given his occupation and the flat’s location in the tony Sixteenth Arrondissement, April imagined an upscale, traditional Haussmann decorated with a tasteful, expensive minimalist bent. When Luc gave her a quick tour, April encountered no surprises save several pieces of midcentury furniture she immediately eyed for auction.
“Êtes-vous prêt?” Luc said after he caught her taking surreptitious pictures of his coffee table. “Or are you going to abscond with some of my furniture?”
“If you ever decide to abandon your apartment for seventy years I hope you keep me in mind as potential heir. Or, at the very least, leave strict instructions for your actual heirs to contact Sotheby’s.”
“You auctioneers are vultures.” Luc chuckled and grabbed his phone. April resisted the urge to check hers. “Allons-y! Off we go!”
After bidding adieu to the glorious coffee table, April followed Luc down the stairs and into the café on the ground floor of his building. Once seated on the terrace next to a low fence overlooking the street, they promptly ordered a bottle of champagne and an assortment of
fromages
.
Sharing, April reminded herself as the cheeses glistened in the fading sunlight. You are sharing this with someone else.
A dozen pieces of cheese and two glasses of champagne later, the million little worry larvae started to leave April’s brain. She listened as Luc told her about his childhood in Dijon and boarding school in Lausanne, and time spent in America, at Georgetown for the second of three law degrees. Soon they were bickering about who was more egregiously over-degreed, and April realized she’d gone ninety minutes without once inspecting her BlackBerry.
As Luc settled the check, she reached into her bag, fully expecting a missed call or two. Surely Troy would ring before lunchtime in New York. Alas, April’s phone remained unbothered, not an e-mail or text or voice mail to be had.
“I’m sorry, but did you just say the word ‘bastard’?” Luc asked, eyebrows raised.
“No, no. Of course not. I didn’t say a thing.”
April sank her hand deeper into her bag. Her fingers brushed against the Manhattan skyline. She recoiled as if touching an electrical wire.
“Snake in your bag?” Luc asked, snickering.
“Don’t even go there.” April rolled her eyes. She yanked the painting from her purse. “New York City. I found this among
les bouquinistes
. I hate this picture. I don’t even know why I bought it.”
“You purchased a painting you do not like?”
“It sounds odd, I know.”
“Yes, yes it does.”
“But I think I was
supposed
to buy it. It was as if the vendor had it specifically for me. His bins were filled with all the typical Parisian landmarks, but after two seconds standing in his stall I happened upon this.”
“Sounds like a coincidence.” Luc shrugged.
“I don’t know. Of all the stalls I stopped at that one. His paintings were no more attractive than any of the others. Plus, I work at an auction house. Unfortunately I have a high bar for artwork. It’s like New York is
following
me.”
Luc chuckled. “It is. But not in the form of badly painted watercolors.”
He reached for the receipt and wrapped it around his credit card.
“You should’ve let me pay,” April said. “You keep saying ‘next time.’”
“It is your birthday. You do not pay. And this is a business expense for me, anyway.”
“Business expense?” She tried not to let her disappointment show. “Um, all right.”
April pushed back her rattan chair and stood, wobbling on the way up. She reached for a patio heater to steady herself. Luc winked, having caught this vulnerability. She extended a middle finger in his direction.
“That needs no translation,” he said and patted her on the back. “Êtes-vous prêt, Mademoiselle?”
“Oui. Grudgingly. Oui.”
“Ah, Avril, you make me laugh.”
Luc stepped easily over the low iron fence and out onto the sidewalk. Before April had the chance to navigate the stakes (which admittedly would have amused Luc to no end), he simply leaned over and hooked his forearm around April’s waist with a firmness that felt like a wall. Luc tucked his other arm under her knees and swiftly lifted her up and over the barrier. She didn’t have an opportunity to protest.
“You’re stronger than you look,” April said as he stooped to let her gain footing on the sidewalk.
“And you, my friend, are lighter than you look,” he said, his hand still firmly centered on her lower back. “Much lighter.”
“It’s a wonder you’re not married.” April was careful to avoid looking too closely into the eyes that were still mere inches from hers. “You really know how to butter a gal up.”
“Merci beaucoup! I do try.” He reached out and tweaked her champagne-flushed cheek.
April could not hide her smile. Luc removed his arm and jerked his head toward the nearby crosswalk.
“
Allons-y
,” he said.
Off they went.
Chapitre XLVIII
Already the streets teemed with partiers bumping and pushing and yelling. It was chaotic, Las Vegas bachelorette party chaotic. People walked into cars. Mopeds drove onto sidewalks, scantily clad waifs hanging off the back like flags. Without thinking or planning or meaning to, April grabbed onto Luc’s arm for anchor. He was two steps ahead but glanced back and smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.
They arrived at the designated
caserne
shortly after ten o’clock. Outside firemen stood ready to greet their guests, the
pompiers’
lantern behind them lit red, fire trucks on the street also lit and on display.
Inside the first courtyard a Brazilian brass band in wigs hammered out songs loud enough to make the ground shake. Twinkle lights and flags dangled overhead. Concession stands lined the yard. Even at that early hour the crowd was thick. Couples danced. Single women prowled the food booths, trying to engage the firemen when they weren’t too busy slinging hash.
“Wow!” April said, the blood pumping through her veins in time with the music. “I sort of feel like I’m at the world’s classiest frat party. Where’s the beer garden?”
“There is a champagne bar inside,” Luc said.
Because of the noise he had to lean close when he spoke, his hot breath giving April a raging case of goose bumps.
“Champagne,” April said, stepping back. “Much better than a beer garden. Show me the way.”
Once again taking hold of his arm, April trailed Luc inside to the champagne bar/disco room, the setup not reminiscent of any municipal building April had ever seen. Of course this public building had been erected over four centuries ago, in the greatest city in the world, so they weren’t exactly talking DMV or small community town hall. April felt the gravitas then, even with the firemen attendants surrounding her in their skintight shirts.
Champagne in hand, Luc pointed her toward a long, low grill sizzling with row after row of mouthwatering sausages. Equivalent fare could probably be found in any given NFL stadium in the United States, but the building, the meats, the free-flowing champagne—everything about it was dizzying.
“Sausage!” she gasped. “It’s like I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Luc turned, eyebrow cocked. “What did you just say?”
“Uh, nothing.” She shook her head. “The food looks great.”
He grabbed her hand. “Allons manger.”
They sidled up to the barbecue, where yet another muscled, chiseled young buck rolled pieces of pork over the coals.
“Un comme ça, s’il vous plait,” April said, endeavoring to sound polite and not like the ravenous middle-aged harpy she was.
“Comme vous voulez,” the fireman said and pulled one off the grill. He plunked it on a stark white Styrofoam plate and passed it April’s way. The poor little dog looked so lonely.
“Also one of those,” she added quickly.
“What do they say in America?” Luc grinned, teeth pointier than usual. “Your eyes have grown larger than your stomach?”
April was about to protest when she noticed he had two as well.
“J’ai faim,” she said, feeling a little defensive. “Must be all the champagne and walking.”
“Ah, yes, the champagne. Of course. Let’s go this way,” he said. “Looks like the other courtyard might have a place to sit.”
April nodded. Champagne glass tucked into the crook of her arm, sausage plate balanced in her right hand, she followed Luc into the adjacent courtyard, all the while thinking there was no better gastro combination than the things she held in her hands.
The second courtyard was at least four times larger than the first and boxed in by stately stone buildings. Blue, white, and red flags surrounded the stage. The dance floor writhed like a box of snakes. A woman in a white feather dress stood at the microphone belting out a bastardized version of an American pop song.
After winding through what was very nearly a mosh pit, they took a seat on a metal bench somewhere near the back. The minute April set her purse on the table, it jolted, from the music or a call, she wasn’t sure.
Just in case (would she ever learn?) April extracted her phone while almost jeopardizing the future of her drink and sausages. The music might have helped, but the BlackBerry was ringing too. April sat staring into her palm while the feather-dressed woman announced the band’s short break.
“Ça va?” Luc’s brow furrowed.
“Oui,” April said, still staring. “It’s just my father. Finally he calls for my birthday! I was starting to wonder.”
She watched the phone belch out its final rings. When it rolled to voice mail April checked and saw she had another missed call, this one from Troy.
“It’s about fucking time,” she mumbled.
“Do you need to speak with him?” Luc asked.
“Nah. It’s pretty loud out here,” she said, frowning.
It wasn’t loud, not right then. Although someone hooked up an iPod to one of the speakers, most of the dancers scattered to find another courtyard, a different place to gyrate and grind.
“Well, it is up to you,” Luc said. “But don’t let me stop you.”
“I’ll catch up with everyone later,” April said at last. She turned off her phone. “Don’t want to miss anything here!” She lifted her glass. “À ta santé!”
“And cheers to you as well.” They tapped plastic glasses and took a sip.