Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (13 page)

Her only hope.

Forty minutes later when he limps up the aisle at his stop, she jumps up, wiping her slick hands against her jeans, and gets off behind him.

“Moony!” she calls. “Wait.”

He turns. Dammit, he’s scowling at her.

She takes a deep breath. “I want to apologize for booting all over you.”

“
Was
a lot of upchuck.” The faintest of smiles pulls at his lips.

“I’m really, really sorry. I forgot you were coming, I didn’t mean to drink so much, I hadn’t eaten really, and I—”

“Poetry reading?”

“What about it?” She’s twisting her intertwined fingers.

“A pattern.”

“I know, I know. I know. I’ve been partying a lot lately. And I’m a shit friend. Will you please just come have a coffee with me? My treat.”

He pauses, looks pained, then pushes his hair out of his face as his jaw muscle flexes. “Okay. Therapy appointment in thirty.”

They walk in silence the half block to the market street near his apartment, rue de L
é
vis
.
It’s already dark, and harsh yellow lights illuminate a few rough working guys swilling beers in Moony’s neighborhood caf
é
. The congenial
patron,
who has a long fringe of gray hair around a mostly bald head, knows Moony and calls out a greeting. Summer orders two espressos at the counter. The espresso machine hisses at her.

At the small table, Moony says, “So. Alcohol’s a problem?”

Summer hedges, “It probably has the potential to be, but last night was just an unfortunate, perfect storm kind of thing. Honest.” For the briefest of seconds, she thinks about telling him what she saw at Les Halles. But she can’t. Too raw and crazy. Besides, she knows how to cut back. She could stop all together, but she
likes
drinking. She needs it. “I’m so sorry. I swear to you it won’t happen again.”

“Ever been to an AA meeting?” he asks.

Her mouth drops open. “Alcoholics Anonymous? Are you joking? That’s for drunks! I mean, old people who are drunk all the time. I’ve been drunk, um, once.”

Moony rolls his eyes.

She runs a finger along a crack in the Formica tabletop and takes a deep breath. His disapproving look is annoying. Don’t get mad, she warns herself. Say why. “Moony, your friendship means a
lot
. I don’t want to lose it.”

She glances at him. He’s stirring his espresso around and around with the little spoon.

“
Worried
about you,” he finally says. “And can’t deal with this.”

Summer doesn’t know how to respond. “I—I’m fine. And I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t mind partying. But … drinking so much. Alone. Why?”

“It’s fun.” She grins.

He’s stone faced. “Why?” he repeats. “With your dad’s history.”

“It’s more that if I
don’t
drink…”

“What?” She doesn’t respond. “What?” he insists and something in his voice makes her strive for honesty.

She squeezes her hands into fists. “It will … overpower me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because I’m not strong like you.”

He shakes his head. “What will overpower?”

She thinks of Kurt nibbling her earlobe, then swats it away. “Oh, the blizzards and wildfires in my head mostly.” She laughs in a too high a voice.

He looks perplexed.

She makes a funny face but knows she’s trying too hard to make this all light.

Moony sighs.

She gets it! She tires him out. He’s not sure she’s worth his time and all the energy she demands. She knows she’s not the only person in the world with problems. It’s just that right now, the avalanche or falling glacier—no, the Balrog of Morgoth—is so giant and so close, breathing fire and cracking that whip of flame, pulling Gandalf into the abyss ahead of her, there’s no room for anything else but trying to escape it. She knows she can’t do it alone.

She knows she can’t do it much longer.

“Look. You’re absolutely right.” Moony’s strong but he’s already carrying so much. He can’t carry her, too. “I have been overindulging. And I have to get my act together.” She pulls her flask from her backpack, then walks outside by the door and with a dramatic flourish pours what’s left (not much) into the gutter. She sits back down. “That’s it. First day of the rest of my life.”

Moony fishes something from his backpack, then places four euro coins on the table. “Thanks,” he says, standing. She can’t read his expression. He’s not mad, but he’s shut down on her.

“Wait a minute. I said my treat. You didn’t even drink it anyway.”

“I gotta go,” he says, shaking his head, eyes closed.

Her only friend limps away. Over the Bridge of Khazad-d
û
m.

“Can’t fool me. I can tell you’re really beginning to like me!” she calls. He’s almost out the door when she says, “Ha! Joke’s on you. I’ve got
two
flasks.”

She doesn’t really, but thank heavens all that vodka is waiting in her armoire. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of her life. Right now she’s gonna order a brandy.

TWENTY-SIX

Summer takes a taxi home. She sits in the stuffed chair in her room and stares unseeingly out the dark window. Losing Moony as a friend cannot be crystalized away. It’s her own fault for thinking she could convince him to be her friend. How many times does she have to spit out the word “hopeless”? She can’t read or study, can’t eat, isn’t sleepy. She finally gets up to pee because she’s disinclined to wet herself, but huddles in bed without washing or brushing her teeth. She doesn’t sleep.

Summer cuts school the next day. With tremendous effort, she rises midday and eats a bowl of lentils that Ouaiba fixes, then sits at the kitchen table and tries valiantly to study. It’s all that’s left, all that she has to hang on to. But everything she reads, she must reread. Then again. And again. And again.

She needs some Adderall.

Why is she even bothering?

A notice in the folded
International Herald Tribune
on the table catches her eye.

FEELING DOWN? NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE? SOS SUICIDE HOTLINE.

A Paris number is printed in bold beneath.

Summer doodles little triangles by the number and wonders who would answer if she called. Some old person probably. Would they speak
good
English?
Excusez-moi? Jumping
on
a bridge?
And if a person
were
feeling like jumping off a bridge, what would they say to them? What on earth could they say? It’s good that they have it, though. Seems like there’s a big market for it here.

That evening she’s doubly tired, but so
not
sleepy. She checks her phone again.

Nothing.

She remembers Dr. Garnier’s advice. She bundles up and heads out for a short walk. First she pours vodka in her flask. She didn’t drink all day, a record for her. And she really needs just a couple of small sips now. If she can maintain control over the amount, she’ll be fine.

She heads up avenue Victor-Hugo to
É
toile and then just keeps going, all the way down the Champs-
É
lys
é
es. She’s strolling alongside six lanes of choked traffic, through crowds of Christmas shoppers and lovers, tourists, and prides of unsupervised, edgy young teens. She walks under sprays of red and white lights, past brightly lit
tr
è
s cher
jewelers, the Renault show room, small and large movie theaters, brasseries, fast-food places, banks, overpriced clothing, luggage and souvenir shops. As in a bad dream, she keeps going, along stretches of dark park, past the huge fortress of the American embassy through the trees, all the way to Place de la Concorde. She’s still not ready to stop. In the Jardin des Tuileries, she shuffles along a lighted path and passes two cops on bikes. The Louvre sprawls before her.

She crumples onto a bench, looking at a wall between her and the river, with the brightly lit I. M. Pei pyramid off to her left, and the Petit Arc de Triomphe to her right. She’s so tired, she’s numb.

It’s quite a sight, the pyramid. The Tuileries in the dark is incredibly romantic. It would be so spectacular to have someone here to share it with. To warm her frozen hands. She forgot gloves.

Inside her coat pocket, she fingers Kurt’s card and her flask. She unstoppers the latter and takes several big swallows.

If you’re ever up for a movie or something, call me.

She pulls out the card. It’s engraved on heavy dove-gray stock with black type:

Konrad Vondur de la Rivi
è
re

H
ô
tel Napol
é
on III

Place de la Concorde

Paris

06.50.33.88.66

Not a business card, more of a calling card; 06 is the prefix for cell phones. If he’s American he must have Euro parents with a name like that. And
living
at the super fancy H
ô
tel Napol
é
on? Jeez. He’s definitely not broke. It’s just a few blocks away. If he’s “home.” Okay, he’s … mysterious, and yes, a little unsettling. But he fires up one kind of warmth in her anyway.

She knows it’s childish, but if Moony hates her, then why not?

Before she can talk herself out of it, she taps Kurt’s number into her phone. He answers on the first ring.

“
All
ô
?
”

“I, uh, ahh, Kurt?”

“Summer,” he says happily.

“Uh. Hi.”

“
Quelle surprise.
”

“I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“Are you kidding? I’m glad you’ve recovered from
les
é
gouts
. When I came out, I saw you driving away in the taxi. I was a little worried, but knew you’d be fine. You are, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Of course. It was an interesting experience.” If he was worried about her being sick or mad why didn’t he text or call?

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m in the Tuileries. I was, um, just thinking about getting something, like, to drink and … I thought of you.” There. She said it.

“Love to,” he says, fast as lightning. “Meet me at Caf
é
Marly in ten minutes.”

“Oh. Right. In the Louvre.”

“Summer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad you called.” He clicks off.

She takes another deep swig from her flask. That was kind of romantic, wasn’t it?

In the bustling caf
é
, she sits at a table in the back and orders two Bloody Marys. The waiter says, “Someone is joining mademoiselle?”

“
Mais, oui,
” she says. She has more energy now. Or maybe it’s agitation.

And in he walks. He’s wearing a high-tech black ski jacket instead of his longer coat, blue oxford shirt and black cashmere sweater, jeans, and—she notes—Wellingtons. Olive-green rubber boots.

“Puddle jumping?” she asks him as he kisses her hello. His unusual scent is ripe tonight. Sulfur-ish.

“You’ll see,” he says, sitting. “You look ravishing.” He stares at her. If looks could eat, he would be gobbling her. “Ah,
pour moi
? How very nice.” He lifts his glass. “To … explorations and decisions.”

“Sure.” Summer clinks glasses with him. “So how are you?”

“Very well. And you? Settling in?”

“Um, I guess so.”

He narrows his dark eyes. “It’s aesthetically pleasing, as advertised, but a cold and heartless city, don’t you think?”

She runs her finger around the rim of her glass. “Now that you mention it, yeah.”

“I do have a treat for you tonight. An unusual outing. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Let’s see. How could you possibly top the sewers? The city morgue?”

“No. Much more lively.”

“Nascar racing?”

“No, more intimate than that.” He’s laughing.

“Nude mud wrestling?” She’s feeling downright loose and light. Sexy and funny. Thin and beautiful. Healthy and alluring.

“Ha. Drink up. Let’s go.”

“But you just got here.” She drains her glass.

He smiles. “Waste not want not. It’s time.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Kurt takes Summer by the hand and leads her from the crowded restaurant into the night. “It’s not too far if you’re up for a stroll,” he says as they pass the Hollywood-lit pyramid.

They head toward the nearby Seine.

“Okay,” she says, although she’s already been strolling so long she has blisters.

He
is
a sweet, kind guy, she thinks. Maybe she should have called him sooner. It’s exactly as she pictured it. She’s holding hands with a hot guy strolling by Parisian landmarks. But his hand is cold, more like gripping a frozen chicken breast

They walk in silence until they reach the Pont des Arts, a wooden pedestrian bridge. Should she warn this guy that she’s … not in a great place for a relationship? Don’t be absurd, she thinks.

And don’t think about the Goth guy.

A little voice in her head repeats
Goth guy
about three more times before it crackles into diamond dust and floats away.

Floodlights on each bank illuminate the bridge and to a lesser extent the river. On the other side, crowded, old stone buildings perch atop the steep wall above the quay. They pause midway and look upriver at the lights of the
Î
le de la Cit
é
. Summer zips her jacket. It’s colder over the water.

“Cigarette?” asks Kurt.

“Thanks.”

The Seine is high and fast moving from all the recent rain. It swirls and eddies beneath them, black and oily.

“Spectacular,” Kurt says. “Flowing like time. Cold. Patient. Romantic.” He squeezes her hand. “Easy to slip into.”

Summer wonders how it would feel and look from ten feet below the surface: floating along in the icy current, arms outstretched, wavy streetlights faintly visible through the darkness above. All quiet. It’s not a frightening thought, rather somehow a soothing one. They watch the river for several minutes, as her giddiness from the caf
é
subsides. She thinks of sitting with Moony on his egg yolk–yellow rain poncho.