Parisian Promises (4 page)

With every step Jean-Michel took with Monica, he convinced himself that he was madly in love with her. He needed to believe with all the molecules in his body that she was the love of his life. If he could command his inner troops to exhibit the dilated pupils of sexual excitement, to make his heart palpitate vigorously, to get an erection whenever her mini dress revealed her pale inner thighs, then he knew she would respond in kind––
if
he had selected the right woman.

He paused along the quais to see if his charm was working.

“I guess you can tell that I don't want this afternoon to end,” he murmured, stroking Monica's soft hair and gazing into her own dilated pupils. “Even the later sunset is cooperating with us, don't you think?”

Monica inched towards him, her breathing heavy. She couldn't believe that she'd met someone so handsome and enthralling and European. “I guess I could stay out a little longer. I mean, I have to go do my sketches. But afterwards I'd love to go dancing with you.”

She put her arms around his neck and fondled his ears, as though she was placing a bridle on Rocky.

“What do you like to sketch?” Jean-Michel caressed her cheek, and a thrill raced down Monica's spine.

“At home, I mostly … I mostly sketch my horses.” Monica gulped as if she were running out of air. “But here I'd love to sketch––that is, I'd love to paint this very moment.”

Jean-Michel guided her to a bench looking out over the Seine. It was quiet along this part of the river, ideal for a seduction. When they sat down, he wrapped his arm around Monica's shoulders. She leaned into him, and he could detect the violent resignation in her trembling body. Monica was in a dreamlike state, awash with surging molecules and hormones of her own. Instinctively she turned to face Jean-Michel, raising her right leg onto his knee. He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it across her lap. Monica let him take control, his cigar-tainted fingers probing and massaging her erotically. Her moans were imperceptible to all but him. Paris camouflaged him again by casting the shadows of early dusk over them. While Jean-Michel pleasured her, Monica never took her eyes off his, and as she climaxed, he observed that the shallows of her hazel eyes now reflected his own profoundly dark eyes. He congratulated himself for having such control over the internal engines of love––and for managing to select such a fine female specimen.

But although he was satisfied with her risk-taking behavior on the public bench, Jean-Michel had to probe deeper into Monica's core beliefs. He removed a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped between her legs.

“If only the old nuns knew the delectable origin of the stains on their handmade linen handkerchief,” Jean-Michel whispered, “they might have to do penance, don't you think?”

This, he knew, was a deliberate and crass trap, but he had met a number of women whose religious background paralyzed them in the heat of a clandestine operation. The last woman he sent on a mission across the border into Spain had perspired profusely during the crossing in Le Perthus, and when she caught sight of a crucifix in the customs office she'd fainted, spilling the handful of false passports she was carrying on his behalf––though at least she had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. Fortunately, her parents' wealth had greased her release, and they assigned her their own penance by shipping her to Patagonia to teach in the local parish school.

“I'm not religious, so I wouldn't know, but .…” Monica whispered, pulling him closer to her. She nuzzled Jean-Michel's neck and inhaled his promises of love and excitement. Desperate to savor this moment, she decided not to mention to Jean-Michel that she knew all about nuns and novenas and lighted candles, all about prayers asking for divine intervention so the punches would stop. Unlike Notre Dame and its empty pews, Monica's parish church back home was packed every Sunday with weeping women and their damaged children. She had wasted enough years kneeling next to her mother, praying that her father would end his frequent strikes against her.

Monica knew enough about animal husbandry to recognize she'd inherited her father's dominant traits, along with his hazel eyes and pale skin. She also knew that if a mare was young enough, she could be retrained, whether it was with positive reinforcement or brute force. She brushed these two thoughts from her mind. Every bone in her body was telling her that she would learn everything about being a woman with Jean-Michel, and that he would be her gentle but masterful and passionate trainer.

“But what? What were you going to say?” Jean-Michel asked.

“Uh, just that I'm not … uh, superstitious. All I know is that I've never wanted anyone as much––”

Jean-Michel's mind was on the logistics of the mission––the men in the wine cellar had asked for firearms–– such that he almost forgot his role in the romantic courtship duet he was dancing with Monica: he was to match the words tumbling from her cupid-lipped mouth.

“As much as I want you,” he managed to chime in unison, though the sappiness of this mutual proclamation of love made him shiver, albeit nearly imperceptibly, with disgust. He resented having to play such an elaborate game of romantic subterfuge, just to get one woman to do as he instructed her without getting snared at a control point or deciding to take liberties with his directions. Unlike other rebels who bragged that their women were dutiful to the extent that they would even do time in prison for their men, Jean-Michel preferred to be a ghost puppeteer pulling the strings of his love-struck envoys of destruction.

Monica noticed Jean-Michel's quiver, and hugged him. She tenderly handed him his leather jacket and beamed when he pulled her to her feet. She would follow him anywhere now, he knew. Consequently, Jean-Michel grasped her hand, resolutely guiding this nubile and compliant partner to his impressive lair.

T
here is no way I'm boarding any of the Bateaux Mouches,” grumbled Bertrand, the tallest of the
compañeros
, as the men approached the dock for the tourist boat ride down the Seine. “We should wait for directions before we proceed.
Putain!
”

“I agree. We're not deplorable tourists,” sniped Charles, the most handsome of the three, adjusting his aviator sunglasses. “Paris is our second home––what if someone sees us? We'll be ridiculed by everyone! They'll slaughter us with their taunts.”

He exchanged a flirtatious smile with the redhead walking ahead of them with her friends. She was smiling at him over her shoulder, but showing no signs of slowing down.

“Who cares about matters of appearances?” Xavier, the clean-cut
compañero
, retorted. “You're not in prep school anymore. This is a serious mission. If someone means to slaughter you––it won't be with words,
putain
!”

“Easy for you to say––nobody here knows you. You're invisible. But see the Eiffel Tower here?” He pointed up to the tall
compañero
. “He stands out, don't you think?”

“Again, irrelevant fact,” said Xavier. “Our task for tonight is to convince, pick-up, seduce, sweet-talk…whatever y
ou
rich preppies call
convincing
those three American chicks over there to go dancing with us. We'll find out the rest of the plan once we're at the disco––on a need-to-know basis.”

Xavier was always insinuating that he already knew every detail of the mission. Although he viewed himself as the self-appointed head of the pack, he had yet to meet face-to-face with the leaders of their rebel group. So far their superiors had only communicated cryptically through the faux-Che–– a
nom de guerre
that Xavier had invented for his more charismatic comrade.

“Faux-Che” did not stick: the man in question had opted instead for Jean-Michel. The other men in the squad had chosen their pseudonyms by alphabetical order: the tall man was Bertrand, the handsome one preferred the name Charles, and together with Jean-Michel, they had assigned the clean-cut intellectual the fusty name of Xavier. This unimaginative naming ritual––not to mention the oversight in not appointing him as the leader––bothered Xavier almost as much as the recent reduction in the already meager funds his father transferred to his expense account. His father had just cabled two enigmatic questions to him: “Are you sure you have an advanced degree in economics? From Paris?”

The sting of these paternal inquiries had turned Xavier more taciturn. He walked silently, his heavy-lidded eyes focused on the gravel path, as the other two chatterboxes evaluated the American women's buttocks.

“I like the petite brunette's tight little ass, don't you agree?” Bertrand stretched to his full height as if preparing to pounce on Karen in one fell swoop.

“
Putain, t'es serieux
?” exclaimed Charles. “You always go for the tiny women with no caboose––what's wrong with you? With your height you should pick an Amazon.”

“Sometimes I do, but tonight I feel like nibbling on caviar,” said Bertrand, “not feasting on rump roast.”

They both guffawed as if they had just won match point at their tennis club.

Lola knew the men were evaluating her figure, and she wanted to challenge them. Determined to stare them down, she spun around, shaking her crimson ringlets, and planted her hands on her hips. First she made eye contact with each man, one by one, and then she slowly undressed them with her playful eyes, all the way down to the crotch.

“Yummy,
mami
.” Charles smacked his lips and popped the collar of his Lacoste tennis shirt. “I think that later on I'm having a live red lobster with lots of butter.”

Xavier stopped.

“You two spoiled assholes are going to ruin our mission,” he said in an enraged whisper. “I won't let it happen, do you hear me?'

“You don't know any more about the mission than we do,” snapped Charles. “We're acting exactly as we should, like three guys trying to pick up girls. If we look like you, as though we're on our way to a funeral, do you think that Little Red Riding Hood over there would be inviting us to come and take her for a ride? Leave the babe-trawling to us. You can sit and add numbers on your head or play pocket billiards for all we care,
putain
. Just don't screw it up.”

Charles and Bertrand passed Xavier and approached the American women.

“Make that lobster and
rack
of lamb,” Charles murmured to Bertrand, ogling Lola's full breasts. “What a feast!”

Lola felt like playing cat-and-mouse with the three dumb mice approaching her. She wanted to test her bantering skills in French, to see if her barbs drew a little blood from any of them, and to decide which one of the three was up to her spunky standards. If she were back in L.A. she would be able to size up these men easily: where they lived, their professions, their social status––and their intent. After numerous missteps that resulted in selecting poor men, she had learned how to identify men with
real
money. But here in Paris, Lola was still on shaky ground, and she wanted to avoid wasting time with a cheap French guy.

She gauged the men approaching her, determined to start honing her skills right there and then. La Belle Otero had maximized her swaying hips and tasty lips, but Lola had her booty, boobs, and quick wit. She pulled and released a coil of red hair as if she were pulling a trigger.

“I thought Parisians never take the tourist boat down the Seine,” she said. “Surely, you're not casting about for innocent foreign women to trap in your bordellos, are you?”

Xavier frowned at the insult and anxiously fiddled in his pockets. How could this girl mistake them for pimps? Then he noticed Bertrand's overeager long strides and Charles' cocky swagger.

Charles approached Lola and extended his hand.

“If I
were
a pimp, I would have to build you a palace bigger than Versailles, where your beauty would attract throngs of suitors. Alas, I am just Charles Daniel de la Tour, and my family's
château
is rather small.” He gently lifted Lola's hand and brushed it with his lips. “We must apologize for the conspicuous way we've been following you.”

“Indeed, were are clumsy, but at least now you know that we are neither pimps nor spies,” said Bertrand, laughing too eagerly. “We're just graduate students in economics. I am Bertrand.”

He shook hands with all three women and wedged his tall body between Karen and Annie. Xavier remained with a sullen look on his face, saying nothing. Bertrand shot him an impatient glance.

“And may I introduce our professor, the chairman of our dissertation committee, Dr.––”

“Please, just call me Xavier,” he interrupted, glaring at Bertrand for over-embellishing their backstory and for introducing a hook they had never discussed––though, on reflection, he really didn't mind being cast in the role of the professor. “May I buy everyone a cup of coffee and a ride on, well, yes––that tourist trap of a boat.” He pointed to the river. “But considering that we shall view many of our favorite sites, and in the company of three beautiful women, no less … well then, that is to say, we would be, uh, honored if you would join us.”

Xavier escorted Annie onto the boat with a stiff formality, drawing on the antiquated bourgeois mannerisms his grandmother had taught him back home in Bogotá. She'd always aspired to move up another notch on the social ladder, using her clever pale grandson as a stepstool, and she had managed to enroll him in Bogotá's best schools. There, however, he was constantly reminded of the country bumpkin manners instilled in him by his grandmother. And now, among the pretty American targets, once again he felt the total yokel.

Fazed for a moment by the goofy gallantry of all three men, Lola boarded the boat alone, scrutinizing them all. Did Charles really have a family
château
? The way he rolled off the honorific article “de” in his last name––de la Tour––seemed as natural as when she introduced herself as Lola. But that didn't mean anything: it had taken her repeated practice to say Lola instead of her full name, Dolores Ignacia Beltran. She'd spent months before this year abroad in Paris rehearsing her new persona, a persona that would never reveal any trace of her canned-beans and no-heat-in-the-apartment personal history.

Her own reinvention made Lola suspect Charles of the same. It was probable that he might have rehearsed his title of minor nobility and the name of the family
château
just to put on airs. She'd misjudged others before. When she first met Monica back at Cal State, Lola had thought the whole horse-ranch story was a pretentious lie, but she'd been wrong. Monica really did come from a ranch, but she wasn't a wealthy girl with an expensive horse hobby. In class she was always fatigued because of the time she spent training her horses as well as going to college full-time. It had been difficult then to appreciate Monica's beauty: she always seemed to have dark circles around her eyes and smelled of the stables. But today, when they left Monica with the French guy at the café, she looked radiant and happy––renewed. Perhaps this was the common denominator of foreigners and expats living in the City of Light. They all had newly minted personas, rising to meet Paris' grand expectations.

For now Lola was happy to play along with Charles and his repartee, but she couldn't let herself forget that she'd come to Paris to catch a big fish in a big pond––and so far,
she
was the fish out of water. Although she found Charles the most attractive and tantalizing, Lola flirted with all three men to see if Charles would show jealousy or frustration. She had to determine his level of interest in her, his true temperament, and––of course––his wealth.

“Please, come here.” Charles stretched his hand out to Lola and led her to the bow of the boat. “You must see the reflection of the Pont Alexandre III on the river. Do you see how the gilded horses appear to be swimming in the ripples of the water?”

He gazed at the reflection with a young boy's amazement. Charles knew he was letting his guard down in front of this vivacious redhead, but it felt refreshing and buoyant rather than a possible risk to his
compañeros.

Lola squinted at the river. To her, the shape of the vast golden wings and the gaping open mouth of the horse made it look as though the creature was either asphyxiating or ready to leap up and drag the boat down to the bottom of the river. Both visions depressed Lola, and she was not a woman who became depressed easily.

“For a minute there I thought you were going to say that the carved nymphs remind you of me.” She shimmied in a blatant display of her remarkable physique, but Charles ignored her little dance.

“Ah, that would be very cliché,” he said in a low voice, sounding hurt. “You think very little of me, then.”

He walked away from Lola and rejoined the group, leaving her confused and a little embarrassed.

Bertrand and Karen were discussing their favorite songs and favorite bands, and Annie was listening politely while Xavier droned on about the doctoral program in economics.

“It is always a challenge to complete the coursework in any doctoral program,” he was saying, “but it is virtually impossible to have a discussion with a fellow professor in Paris. Where do they hide all day? Why can't people just say what they mean?”

“I haven't really met my professors,” said Annie, unsure of what he was talking about. “I think all we've had so far have been teaching assistants. It's been chaotic, to say the least.”

Bertrand, making headway with Karen, and afraid that Xavier would cast his gloomy spell over the whole day, decided it was time to take charge of the conversation.