Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (24 page)

She pictures herself sprawled in the middle of a cobblestone street. “No. Kids might be on it.”

“I’m telling you, the river is a winner,” he says, after taking a long draw. “Step into it right now and be done with it.”

Summer stares into his sultry eyes for several beats. “I have some questions for you.”

“Oh?”

“Now that I’m … committed,”

He purses his sexy lips, and crosses his arms. “All right, then. Go ahead.”

“So, who are you, exactly?”

“I’m who I say I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “Could you elaborate?”

“I’m your lover. Your partner. Your soul. Your friend.”

“Were you that guy’s friend? The one who jumped off the overpass at Les Halles?”

He smiles like he’s impressed. “Yes. That was a messy affair. He jumped
and
was hit by a truck but lived for three more days. I did try to talk him into something higher and more effective. But it had to be there.”

“The druggie we went to the Catacombs with?”

“He was a disappointment,” Kurt says primly. “We were all set for an OD, but he
chickened out
.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. “The—lady of the night who got into a Peugeot with you?”

Kurt nods. “Very good.”

“And the woman in the M
é
tro? The first one…” She already knows the answer.

“Of course.”

She stops and puts one hand on her hip. “What’s with this? All these people you know and destroy?”

“They actually do it to themselves.”

“Just answer me. I have a right to know.”

He runs his long fingers through her hair. “There are many people for whom this world is unbearable. And for whom it has been unbearable for a long time. They live in hell and finally, one day, cannot hold on any longer. They yearn for the freedom from pain and despair that
only
death can bring. They only have one choice.”

“Hmmm.”

“I help them see that. I’m their counselor, their guide. Like I was for your father.”

Her throat thickens. “Why do you think Dad did it?”

“‘Why’ is not my department. Besides, you know full well. Same reason you will. The world is too much for them. In the end everyone’s reasons are essentially the same.”

“And Mom? What about her?” Summer puts her hand over her eyes. “Poor Mom. To lose your … whole family … this way.”

“Serves her right.”

“No it doesn’t. She’ll be traumatized.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“I hope so. I guess she did once before.” Summer knows Mom will be more than traumatized. But in the end, she, too, will be much better off. Summer starts walking again. “So, what is it that you
do
exactly?”

Kurt falls in beside her. “I help you see the way. Come to a balanced decision. The one Camus says is the only real question. Ditto, Hamlet, er, Shakespeare.”

Summer pictures Mom’s dog and smiles. “Right. I mean at the moment I … do it.”

“You’ll see.”

She takes his hand again, then drops it. “You have a bad habit of cutting out right at the end. When you’re most needed.”

“I’ll be there, when you take the big step. Don’t worry, little darlin’.”

He’s mimicking Winston. She rolls her eyes. “And then, that minor business of whether or not there’s life after death?”

“Are you asking?”

“Yes.”

“Would it make any difference?”

She snorts. “No. Hell or black nothing, anything’s better than this.”

“There you go.” Kurt smiles. “Other questions?”

“What about—Is this, like, something rich people … is this like a first-world problem?”

“Freedom from want, indeed privilege itself, brings many people face-to-face with the emptiness and pointlessness of life. But deprivation and especially oppression send ’em into my arms in droves.
Ma ch
è
re,
despair is universal.”

“So that’s a ‘no.’”

“Yes,” he says.

She studies the speed of the current in the river. “If you’re so convinced it’s the way, why don’t
you
do it?”

“That would be like asking Neptune to drown himself.”

“Huh?”

“I suppose I should emphasize: I can only take my beloved so far.” He says it so quietly she almost can’t hear him. “Fine print: It’s still your decision, your choice, in the end.”

This gives her pause for thought. “It doesn’t feel like it,” she says.

He steps back and puts his hands up. “Hey. I’m right here with you, and like I said, to the bitter end. But I’m not forcing
anybody
to do
anything
.” He flicks his cigarette butt into the Seine.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Forcing people to do things. Isn’t he sort of forcing her? But the thought floats away with the butt. She unstoppers the flask and takes another slug.

“My friend Moony recognized you.”

Kurt blinks his slow reptilian way.

“Why did he think you were Egyptian?”

“Your father thought I looked like Charlie Shoemaker.”

“Who’s that?”

“Major League baseball player from way back. Kansas City Athletics. That man on the boat saw a Marilyn Monroe impersonator wearing his mother’s raincoat.”

“Wait.” Summer turns and stares at him. “Really?”

He holds his chin with his thumb and forefinger and gives her a mock
You don’t say
look. “And not everyone sees me.”

This thought needles her. Then Kurt’s not exactly …

Solid?

“Seriously? Not everyone can see you?” She shakes her head. “No wonder people look at me like an insane person when I’m talking to you.”

It doesn’t matter. He’s more real and powerful than anything she has ever known.

“What do
you
get out of it?” she asks, moving forward again.

“The pleasure of doing my work well. I’m very good at what I do.” He bats his eyelashes. “Helping people. And don’t forget population control.” He grins.

“That’s not funny.”

“None of you has a sense of humor.”

She scowls at him. “I used to. And if I still had it, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

“Touch
é
.”

It’s no use getting mad. She can only muster a ghost of her former indignation anyway. She takes his hand again. “Let’s not argue.”

“I want you to know that I’m grateful for this intimacy with you,” says Kurt softly, interlacing his fingers with hers. “It doesn’t usually work out this way. It’s true I lusted after you first, but a strange thing has happened. I’ve come to respect and really admire you. I so want to see your suffering end. And for you to be content.” He pauses. “I love you.”

“Thank you,” Summer says sincerely. “I still want to know
why
do you do what you do, though.”

“Everyone has the capacity within themselves. It comes with free will. It’s in my job description to move things along.”

“I don’t understand. Job description? Is someone paying you to do this?”

He laughs. “I volunteer out of sincere concern for people’s suffering. The razor-sharp, multiton, hot tar, icy, deep-ocean torment that you, my friend, know too well. It’s torture of the most devious and inescapable kind. I’m proud to be relief.”

“Relief is a feeling. So’s contentment.”

“Yeah?”

“You have to be alive to feel a feeling.”

“I think we should get on with things,” Kurt says, stopping. “All this discussion serves no purpose. Once you’ve decided, you must
act
.”

He’s right. But faint agitation bubbles inside her. “I told you I’m committed,” she huffs.

A couple strolls by arm in arm and ignores them. Moony’s lopsided smile fills Summer’s head and her chest tightens.

And what does life expect from me?

She says, “Humans are capable of incredible things. Full recoveries against the odds.”

“Nonsense,” he barks. “You know you can’t go on like this.”

“I know. But I don’t have to do
this,
” she whispers. “Right?”

“Ah, the ambivalence. ‘Should I or shouldn’t I?’ That and lack of energy are my two biggest obstacles. But you’re my favorite type. Inebriated, depressed, suicidal, impulsive—
and afraid of backing down
. Plus your brain is too trashed to do anything as complicated as getting a new outlook on life.”

“Go to hell.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. But not the river.” She takes a long pull from her flask and then offers it again to Kurt.

“To your health. So what’s your idea?” he asks.

“I’d like to go up,” Summer announces. “To the Eiffel Tower. Late tonight, right before it closes so there won’t be any families there.”

“Hmm,” he says, holding his chin. “Poetic choice. Only they’ve made it very difficult to do up there. You’ll need some good wire cutters and the stealth of a black cat.”

“I know. It’s under control.”

“Good for you. Sure you don’t want to step off the bank here? Or ingest the rich harvest from the medicine cabinet?”

“Eiffel Tower or nothing.”

“Okay, that’s the spirit.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of. I’ll meet you there at ten thirty. Turn your phone off and keep it that way.”

He walks away.

With hands on her hips and tapping her boot, Summer says, “Um, Kurt?”

He turns around, grins at her then grabs her around the waist, twirls, and kisses her.

“Wow,” she says, smiling, when they come up for air. “No more questions.”

FIFTY

Summer heads for a taxi stand, and is about to turn her phone off but checks it first. Two messages and one missed call from Moony.

She clutches her mobile to her chest. Oh, Moony.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she calls him back.

It rings and rings. And rings. His voicemail switches on. Listening to his voice in a sort of trance, she doesn’t disconnect quickly enough, realizes the beep was seconds ago, and says, “Oh, uh, hi. Saw you called. And well, I wanted to say good-bye. Since I’m leaving tonight. And all. Love you, Moony.” She hangs up. She’s an idiot. She told him she was leaving Saturday. But she’s glad she left him a message.

She passes a Monoprix and ducks in. Heads straight for the candy section and grabs a large bag of gummy bears. In the office supply aisle she uncaps a permanent marker and writes across the package: “Do no open until after operation. Love, S.”

Then she hails a taxi and gives the driver Moony’s address.

Because it’s after 5:00
P.M.
, the outside door of Moony’s building is locked and Summer can’t remember the code. So she waits. A few minutes later an old man opens the door and Summer smiles at him reassuringly then slips in. She climbs up to the Butterfield apartment and rings the bell.

No one answers. She buzzes again, longer and harder. Come on. Someone’s got to be there.

No one’s home. She slumps.

She’s disappointed and relieved. All her feelings seem to have two sides—a hot and a cold. A heads and a tails. A truth and a dare.

Mostly cold, tails, and dare.

The timed light in the hallway blinks off. She stands in the dark for a long while, finally leaving the package on the welcome mat.

FIFTY-ONE

Back at Mom’s apartment, Summer gets her wire cutters, changes into her black jeans and long wool coat, and writes a note that she leaves on Mom’s bed:

Dear Mom,

Totally sorry for everything.

Love, Summer

PS Wayba knows nothing.

It’s lame, but she can’t think of anything else and has a feeling she misspelled Ouaiba. Her message was lame. The gummy bears are lame. It’s all lame, but if she doesn’t leave these small signs of herself behind, there will truly soon be no trace of her. She’s been riding a wave of resolute energy, but it’s fading. She needs all her strength for what’s coming, so she spreads Nutella on a hunk of baguette and forces it down.

Camus follows her around the apartment. Their friendship has been a bright spot these last weeks. They have much in common. “I’m sorry, Camus,” she says. “To leave you.” She picks him up and rubs his head and behind his ears. “You’re a good, good dog. You love your family. You don’t complain. You spend most of the day alone. You try to do the right thing” She carries him under one arm where he seems content.

Her phone sings. It’s Moony.

Should she answer it? Camus licks her hand. Okay.

“Where are you?” He sounds frantic.

“I’m at home. Where are you?”

“Concert Choir performance! Intermission.”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Douce Nuit.’” “Silent Night.” She’s supposed to be there. Didn’t even remember to blow it off.

“You okay?”

“Definitely. I’m fine.”

She pauses. What if she just said,
I’m getting ready to off myself?
She stifles a sigh. No way. She’s not going to ruin it now. And a tiny part of her doesn’t want Moony to think she’s any more of a freak than he already does. Until after she’s gone.

“Summer, that guy? Seen him lately?”

“He’s not really a problem anymore.” She notices the clock. “Oh, shoot. I gotta go.”

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to be somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Um, I, well, the Eiffel Tower.”

“Why?”

“You know, since I’m leaving. Tourist stuff. I love you, Moony.” It gets easier and easier to say. She hugs Camus good-bye, lets him lick her chin, and puts him down. “Gotta run.”

Heads you win. Tails I lose.

FIFTY-TWO

Summer stands alone beneath the massive soaring steel girders of the Eiffel Tower, out of the freezing rain. Only a few tourists wander about. It’s 10:32 and Kurt’s nowhere to be seen. They’re going to close soon.

She stubs out her last cigarette and shoves her hands in her wool coat pockets, feeling the wire cutters.

No problem. She’ll do it alone. It’s now or never. One simple goal that she actually can attain.

She marches toward the elevator.

Kurt falls into step beside her. “
Bonsoir,
mademoiselle.” He looks straight above them. “Ah, Jules Verne.” He means the expensive restaurant on the first platform. “Shame we couldn’t have a romantic dinner first. Champagne, of course. Some escargot, maybe …
poulet cordon bleu
. But you have to make reservations months in advance.”