Hidden in Paris (33 page)

He stood on the platform, waiting for the next subway amid African workmen, maids and elderly men. His clothes suddenly felt deeply inappropriate. This attire had been meant to dazzle Annie, certainly not to wear in the métro in an undesirable neighborhood early in the morning. He discretely removed the folded silk pocket square from his suit jacket and buried it deep inside the pocket of his raincoat. He imagined he’d get himself mugged in this attire but all he got was indifference. He stepped into the subway car and held onto the bar rather than sit down. He studied the faces around him with great interest but no one looked at him. Men and women on their way to work, closed to the world. This was how people lived.

He changed trains at
Place de Clichy
and headed toward
Place Blanche
and
Pigalle
, reasoning that if this was the Paris he never set a foot in, it therefore had to be Jared’s territory. Only by attempting to retrace Jared’s footsteps, no matter how futile an endeavor, would Lucas have a chance to understand what might have happened.

He emerged from the métro station
Pigalle
and was surprised by the heat of the morning. Yesterday had been a day of storm and thundering rain and today would be a scorcher. A record heat had been predicted for the day. He removed his raincoat and folded it over his arm. Everything was upside down: the weather, Jared, and he and Annie.

At Pigalle, he stood in the middle of the boulevard and surveyed his surroundings. He had somehow expected stench and prostitutes in broad daylight, but instead found only a few tourists looking for a place to have breakfast, he assumed, looking as out of place as he did. A group of Senegalese men armed with brooms were laughing contagiously as they cleaned the front of closed stores still protected by metal screens.

A drug overdose made absolutely no sense. As a child, Jared had a charming intellectual curiosity and a promising gift for art. In adolescence, after the murder of his father, his sister’s death and his mother’s illness, he had taken refuge in a form of self-protection disguised as aloofness. Secretive, yes. A drug addict, no.

Though what just happened to Jared was neither his fault nor his responsibility, Lucas blamed himself. He had made a promise to Jared’s mother to watch over her son. She had not burdened him with that request, not at all. Yet he had promised. What sickened him was that small sentence by the doctor: The combination of drugs and alcohol could have been
intentional
. The insinuation outraged him. But when he learned that Jared had been discovered by night guards at
Cimetière de Montmartre
, the cemetery where Jared’s mother and sister were buried, Lucas had a sinking feeling.

When he’d just turned eighteen, years before his mother died, Jared had materialized at Lucas’s doorstep. He said he was making a living with his art and that he and his mother would no longer need Lucas’s financial assistance. That was when he and Jared became friends, a friendship based on the mutual understanding that Jared, as far as Lucas was concerned, would never have to meet his expectation, search for his approval or even give signs of life, as well as a mutual understanding that Jared could always count on him.

No, Jared was a good boy. Lucas came to the only possible conclusion: Althea was the one who introduced Jared to drugs. It all made sense: she was uncommunicative, unhealthy-looking, antisocial. She definitely had something dark and self-destructive to hide. He would personally see to it that she be sent back to her country, her and her drugs.

Lucas walked in the empty streets, feeling the heat of the sun. Althea had ruined everything. This terrible tragedy could not have come at a less auspicious moment. He felt guilty to feel a smile on his lips: Annie!

The evening before had been a whirlwind and this by no choice of his own. Since the kiss, he had planned out his seduction. He had envisioned a slow and romantic progression, a re discovery of sorts, with tête-a-têtes, dinners, dating, kissing. After a while, ideally, Lola would have stayed home with the boys so that he and Annie could go to Normandy for a couple of nights and stay at his maison on the beach in
Honfleur
. They’d eat
plateaux de fruits de mer
, oysters, shrimp, crab. They’d walk on the beach hand in hand. Oysters are an aphrodisiac.

But with women, one had to know when to go with the flow. When he’d arrived at Annie’s house the night before, he was nervous. He needed to get a sense of how she felt about their kiss at the park before he began his planned romantic seduction. Apparently Annie was not in a romantic mood. He went with the flow, took his cues from her, and it was fantastic.

He spotted a taxi and hailed it. What to do now? It could go several ways from here. One of them involved Jared not waking up and Annie rejecting him. Another scenario was that Jared would wake up and that Annie would pretend that nothing had happened between them. Lucas was far from the hospital now, far from the two people he cared most about and whose next few hours would define his own destiny.

Lola played the last two hours back in her mind again and again like an incomprehensible movie where the plot and the sequence of events made no sense, where the protagonists acted bizarrely out of character: Annie banging at her door explaining in a run-on sentence about Jared, the hospital, and waking up in bed with Lucas. Althea emerging into the hallway, rushing down the stairs and out of the house, her black coat floating behind her like Batman’s cape. Lucas and Annie escaping out of the house like robbers at the crack of dawn to rush to the hospital.

And then, silence. Lola was left in the house with the sleeping children. So she did what needed to be done. Alone, she went and woke the children, one by one, hers and Annie’s, five kids in all. Five sets of breakfasts, teeth to brush, scattered clothes and shoes to extract from various bedrooms and closets, five sets of passive or active resistance techniques at the prospect of school or, in the case of Simon, daycare. She explained to the children that Jared had fallen sick and that everyone was at his bedside.

By eight, Lola had gotten four children to school on time, appropriately dressed and with full stomachs. After she said goodbye to the children and told the teachers they would be staying at school for lunch, she took Simon to the daycare for the day so she’d be free to go to the hospital or do whatever was needed. She felt senselessly proud of herself as she pushed Simon in his stroller toward the daycare. It was an exceptionally beautiful morning, and she could not help but be happy despite what was happening to Jared. It wasn’t happiness she felt exactly, but self-worth. Mark would have found ways to criticize her and to paste a couple new negative labels on her already bad record. Without Mark’s judgment, she saw how perfectly capable she was, and that felt better than any collagen injection, better than Bikram yoga, better than Pilates, even better than sex with Gunter! She arrived home and luxuriated in the feeling for a few more minutes, until Annie called and told her the gravity of Jared’s condition.

“How is Althea?”

“Althea flipped, apparently,” Annie said, in a high-strung tone. “She left the hospital. She looked freaked. I was hoping you had heard from her.”

“I haven’t. And how’s Lucas?”

“Looks like he flipped too. I don’t think he felt too comfortable being in the same room with me. Everyone is freaking out right and left.”

“How about you?”

“I’m fine, of course,” Annie snapped. “Someone has to be.”

“You sound tense.”

“I’m perfect.”

Lola hung up the phone wondering about Annie’s choice of word.

Althea let the revolving door of the hospital’s windowless lobby sweep her away from muted light and stagnant air and propel her into the street. The heat of the day after the cool hospital temperature shocked her. She recoiled, swirled back inside the revolving door and back to the lobby. She stayed there, panting. Jared did not want her, and he did not love her. Whatever she had done had made him want to run away, and he had taken drugs, suffered an overdose. If he died it would be her fault for not giving him a reason to live. He had given
her
a reason to live. But if he did not want her anymore, or if he died, then her reason to live was gone. She rushed to the bathroom. In the stall, she heaved but she had nothing in her stomach left to vomit. At the sink, she put both hands on the cold, smooth marble, waiting for the nausea to subside. She faced her image in the mirror, studied her reflection for another unsparing minute and felt such pain in her heart, in her stomach, in her head and in her limbs that she thought she might be dying. Panic grabbed her. She ran out of the bathroom, expelled herself from the hospital through the revolving doors and thrust herself into the street.

In her black coat, her black scarf, her black pants that stuck to her legs, she ran along the boulevard. She ran in small streets, between cars and tall, ornate stone buildings. When her body stopped being able to run, she walked. She knew none of the streets and though she was losing her bearings to the point of toppling down, she continued walking. She was so thirsty. Her body would not go on for much longer without food or water or hope. All she needed now was a place to curl up and wait for death.

When she realized she was completely lost, she began following a single boulevard hoping to cross a river or a railroad where her life would end. But there seemed to be no end to this street, no end to the city. She advanced on wobbly legs toward a horizon that did not exist.

In the distance, she thought she saw something. It was strange. It was far away at the end of this interminable boulevard. From where she was, it looked like what might be the canopy of a circus, a series of white awnings or tents with colorful flags and balloons, red, yellow, pink floating above them. She advanced toward the floating colors, which appeared farther the more she advanced. She thought of her black tea still at the house. It was cold now. She needed it. She needed to get back to the house and drink her black tea. But first she would need to reach the flags and the canopies. But the flags were so far, and her body so weak that she could hardly make any progress toward them. She cried tearless tears and reached with her arm toward the tents.

Suddenly tents and flags expanded and reached toward her, and a moment later, she was swallowed. Wherever she was now was loud, blinding, filled with people and exotic shops. Strong smells of trash and spices emanated from the doors of buildings, the pavement. There were groups of children playing on the sidewalk. Was she in Africa? Maybe this was China, Egypt. There were people everywhere, hustling around, in a hurry. Busy, determined people from no country and from every country.

The sun, straight above, tracked her without mercy. Her heartbeat was loud. It was as loud a sound as Jared’s heart monitor. But she realized the pulsating came from outside her body, like the rhythmic throb of a distant drumbeat. As the crowd became more dense and determined, she found herself carried by it. Her movements became easier, she was no longer one but part of a human wave made up of entire families. There were women covered in burkas pushing strollers, and babies with dark hair and skin like golden silk. Everywhere, excited children were running and calling to each other. Men walked in groups, some with turbans, some kippas, all gesticulated, waving their hands, and speaking loudly to each other in strange languages. There were women in saris, women in miniskirts, women who carried young children and large totes.

No one paid attention to Althea, as always. So she made herself one with the crowd without intention or thought other than to get to water. Suddenly, she was right under the flags and colorful awnings, engulfed in the scents of exotic food, grilled meats, spices, mint. There were perfumes too, musk, patchouli. A market? The drumbeat became more insistent as new instruments joined in the rhythmic melody of Arabic music that grew louder and more exuberant as she approached. There were piles of fruit, huge legs of lamb turning on skewers with blades like swords, their juices oozing out over the flames that licked them, vegetable stews cooking in immense pots. Men and women waited in line to be served. She recognized couscous. Annie had served it once and she had not dared taste it at the time. But today she would. She would wait in line and be served steaming couscous, and maybe one of the thin spicy sausages. But before she could get closer to the food stands the crowd carried her away, toward an area of vibrant color: rugs, gold, jewels, beads, and Indian fabrics, piles of it, caressed by a woman in a sari, so green and vivid it was fluorescent. The woman’s wrinkled hands like leather on silk. Everywhere, there were children with cotton candy in their hands darting around their mothers like flashes of lights. An old man was setting up copper pots, pans, and jars, all gleaming in the light, and smiled broadly at her, the porcelain white smile against his dark face. He told her something, something she did not understand. She wanted to stop moving but her body was in motion, her body had someplace to go; her body that wanted water or food but knew only how
not
to eat and drink. She did not feel in control of her senses. She could smell, and see with such delicious and heartbreaking clarity despite her thirst, hunger and exhaustion. Her senses had expanded in wild surges. Everything she saw and smelled and touched was intensified, magnified. A knobby man with slick hair was holding a voluptuous woman, his thin arms around her bare waist. Her skin was made of melted chocolate. Althea loved that beautiful skin, she who had never noticed skin before, hers or anyone else’s. But already the couple had disappeared. A small man in a dark suit walked toward her holding a sandwich. As he walked, he bit into the overflowing sandwich, juices dripped onto the ground—a disgusting sight, a fascinating sight. Althea wanted to tear the sandwich out of the man’s hand. Food was everywhere again; Kebabs folded in pita bread. A fruit salad a woman cut before her eyes, her wet hands holding peaches and splitting them into chunks. Lemonade, the lemons dancing with ice cubes. Her head spun. This was the throbbing life that had been accessible to the rest of humanity all along. It did exist. It was real. And she did not need to be with Jared to experience it. And she liked it, yes, she wanted it. She wanted to touch it and be touched by it. She wanted to taste and feel. She wanted to bask in the immense sensuality of being alive; she wanted to learn how to make it happen to her every day like it was happening now.