Until I Die (9 page)

“I do not think I have ever been here before,” Violette admitted, after primly wiping a strand of melted cheese from her lips with her napkin.

“It's the oldest market in Paris,” I said. “I think it was around four hundred years ago that it was transformed into a market from an orphanage that dressed its children in red. Which is why it's called the
Marché des Enfants Rouges
.”

“Market of the Red Children,” Violette mused in English.

“You speak English?” I gasped.

“Of course I do,” she responded. “I learned it quite a while ago, although I have not had much of an occasion to use it recently. But if you wish, we can speak in your mother tongue. It will be good practice for me.”

“Deal!” I said enthusiastically, pausing when I saw her look at me quizzically. “And I'll try to stay away from using slang”—I smiled—“to make it easier on you.”

“No, no!” she insisted. “Charlotte was right when she said I needed to be in step with the times. Where better could I learn twenty-first-century language and mannerisms—in English—than from a twenty-first-century American girl?”

“Actually, if you really mean that, I have an idea. Do you like films?”

“Are you referring to the cinema?”

“Yes. Besides reading and hanging out in museums, going to the movies is my absolute favorite thing to do.” I scraped the last spoonful of the delicious soup from my bowl and finished off my glass of Perrier.

“Kate, I must admit,” Violette said, looking embarrassed “I have never been to the cinema. It has not been around that long, you know, and I just cannot see the point. Like you, I would rather spend my time reading a book or looking at art.”

“But film
is
art! In fact, it's the French who dubbed it ‘The Seventh Art.'” I thought for a second. “Do you have anything to do after lunch?”

Violette shook her head with an expression of alarm as she realized what she had gotten herself into.

I reached under the table for my book bag, pulled out a worn copy of
Pariscope
—the weekly guide for Paris events—and flipped back to the cinema section. Scanning the classic film pages, I searched for something that would be worthy of someone's
very first film ever
.

A few hours later I squinted in the bright January sun, as Violette and I walked out the doors of a vintage-film cinema. Above us hung a billboard for Alfred Hitchcock's
Notorious
.

“So,” I asked, glancing toward her. “What did you think?”

A broad grin—the grin of a fourteen-year-old, for once, instead of a centuries-wizened old woman—spread across Violette's face. “Oh, Kate. It was amazing.” Her voice was hushed with awe. She grabbed my hand. “When can we do it again?”

VINCENT CALLED THAT NIGHT, APOLOGIZING FOR
disappearing for the day. He had already sent a couple of texts, and from their tone, he was obviously feeling guilty about something and trying to make up for it.

“It's okay, Vincent. I actually spent the whole day with Violette.”

“You did?” Although he sounded tired, I could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Yeah, she was supposed to walk me home, but I took her out for lunch instead. What was up with the numa alert, anyway? Jules said some might be lurking around your neighborhood.”

“Nothing. It was a bad tip, actually. Violette told Jean-Baptiste to call off the alert tonight. Everything's as it was before: invisible numa ready to jump out when we least expect it.”

“Well, you were right about Violette. She's actually really nice. It's just Arthur with the ‘humans suck' attitude problem. I think I'm just going to avoid him as much as possible.”

“That's probably a good plan.” Vincent sounded exhausted and distracted. Whatever he had been up to today, it had definitely taken its toll. He didn't sound like himself.

“Vincent, I'd better go. You sound beat.”

“No, no. I want to talk,” he said quickly. “So tell me: What are you doing,
mon ange
?”

“Reading.”

“Not surprising,” he laughed, “coming from Paris's most voracious devourer of books. Is it something I've read?”

I flipped to the front of the book. “Well, it was published four years after you were born, but was banned for most of your life—existence. At least in its uncensored version.”

“Written in 1928 but banned for years. Hmm. Does it have a passage about entering the peace on earth, by any chance?”

“Vincent, you skipped straight to the sex scene!
Lady Chatterley's Lover
is about a lot more than a tumble in the gamekeeper's hut, you know!” I chided jokingly.

“Mmm. Tumbling sounds really good about now.”

My heart hiccuped, but I tried to sound calm. “You know, that
is
one of my favorite daydreams. Tumbling with you, not gamekeepers.” I grinned, wondering what effect my taunting was having on him.

“Are your grandparents home?” he asked after a pause, his voice sounding suspiciously husky.

“Yes.”

He cleared his throat. “Good thing, or I'd have to come over and ravish you on the spot. They
do
talk about ravishing in that book, don't they?”

I laughed. “I haven't gotten to any ravishing parts yet. But ravishing and tumbling . . . I'm not sure I'm available for that, since I have a date with this hot dead dude tomorrow night.”

“Okay, I get it. A very wise change of subject.” He laughed. “So . . . you haven't forgotten?” I could hear his tired smile over the phone line.

“Forget a date to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Opéra Garnier? In our own private theater box? Uh, no—I don't think that would be possible.”

“Good,” he said. “Be there at six to pick you up.” These last words were barely audible. It sounded like he was not only tired but in pain. What had he been doing? Now I was past curiosity and entering very concerned territory.

“See you then. Can't wait . . . ,” I said, and as I hung up I finished the sentence in my mind:
to find out what you're up to
. If he was as worn down tomorrow night as he sounded now, I might just be able to convince him to talk.

Vincent stood outside my door dressed in his tux, his black hair pushed back off his face in waves. It was like a repeat of my birthday evening: him in his tux and me in the red Asian-patterned long dress he had bought me, worn under Mamie's floor-length black-hooded coat. Vincent's eyes shone appreciatively when he saw me, and once we were out on the street, he gave me a long and delicious kiss.

We parked underneath the Opéra. Although I had seen it several times—as a tourist and during the daytime—the building always took my breath away, looking every bit like a marble wedding cake. Tonight it had transformed into a fairy castle, its warm yellow lights glowing magically through the chilly winter air. We followed richly dressed people walking arm in arm through the monumental doors.

“Have you been here before?” I asked as we walked into the foyer.

“I've come a few times as a fill-in date for Gaspard or Jean-Baptiste when the other was dormant. They always have season passes.”

We stepped into the center of the room, and I looked up. “Oh,” I gasped, the sumptuous surroundings robbing me of my capacity for intelligent speech. The enormous space was decorated in an over-the-top mash-up of styles—with every single inch of the floors, walls, pillars, and ceiling decorated to the nth degree in gold, marble, mosaic, or crystal. In any other setting it would seem like too much. But here it was stunning.

Vincent led me up the left-hand branch of the grand marble staircase to the second floor, and down a curved hallway lined with dozens of little wooden doors. We stopped in front of number nineteen.

“I didn't reserve the royal box,” Vincent explained as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “I didn't think you'd like the ostentation. Everyone's always ogling it, trying to see who's inside. This one's just a good ten-spectator box, but I bought all ten seats and had them clear out the extra chairs for us.”

I watched uncertainty flicker across his features and shook my head in disbelief. “Vincent! As if I would even know the difference! Just being here is incredible. We could be sitting in the nosebleed seats and I'd still be over the moon.”

Reassured, he opened the door to show a long, narrow passageway papered in dark red velvet and hung with an oval mirror. A narrow fainting couch sat against one wall under a pair of old-fashioned electric lights with flame-shaped bulbs. On the other end of the tunnel-like room was a balcony that opened onto the grand opera, with two wooden chairs set behind a knee-high rail.

“Holy cow. All this is for us?” I asked, feeling like I had just stepped into a romance novel.

“Is it okay?” Vincent asked hesitantly.

I turned and threw my arms around his neck. “It's more than okay. It's incredible.” He laughed as, without letting go, I started jumping up and down in a fit of pure joy.

We watched the first two acts of
Prince Igor
sitting side by side in our private box. At first it was hard to concentrate with Vincent next to me, mindlessly tracing circles on my knee as he watched the stage, but after a few minutes the mise-en-scène and costumes swept me away as the dancers performed their acrobatic feats. I lost myself in the spectacle, feeling like I had just awoken from a dream when the curtains closed and the houselights went up an hour later.

“What did you think?” asked Vincent as we stood.

“It's bewitching—all of it.”

He smiled, satisfied, and holding his arm out for me, said, “This is the time for the
promenade
.” He led me outside our box into the corridor. We followed other couples into a large gilt hall with enormous chandeliers and ceilings painted with angels and mythical figures in a style that reminded me of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling.

“Do you want something to drink? A glass of champagne? A bottle of water?” Vincent asked, and I shook my head, seeing that the refreshment line already stretched halfway down the hall.

“I want to use the time to look around,” I said, clutching his arm so I wouldn't fall over as I tried to walk and gawk at the same time.

We explored every nook and cranny that the building had to offer, each room opening onto another more exquisite than the last. When we ended up in front of our door, Vincent asked, “Want to see anything else? We have a few moments left.”

I hesitated. Although I didn't want to ruin the night by quizzing him on something I suspected he didn't want to talk about, I decided it wouldn't hurt to simply bring it up. “No, let's go inside,” I said. Once through the door, we sat on the fainting couch and smiled like kids trying on their parents' clothes.

“This isn't exactly like pizza and a movie at my place. Does it feel weird?” Vincent leaned forward and turned his head to look at me. The way his hair fell across his face as he grinned made the flame already burning inside my chest flare a little brighter.

“Not weird,” I responded. “To be honest, you could have taken me bowling and I would be having just as much fun. It doesn't matter what we're doing, as long as I'm with you.” As soon as I heard the words leave my mouth, I burst out laughing. “That should totally be on a poster with a fluffy kitten saying it. Cheese factor through the roof!”

“Totally cheesy,” he agreed, grinning. “But I was basically thinking the same thing. I've had that feeling ever since I met you.” He leaned in and began to nuzzle the skin at the base of my neck.

My eyes closed of their own accord.
Concentrate
, I thought.
Some things are more important than making out with your boyfriend at the Opéra
. “Vincent,” I said, pulling back and fixing his eyes with my own. “I don't want to ruin the amazing evening. But it can't wait.” I saw him blanch and hurried to get the words out. “You promised not to hide anything from me, but it feels like that's what you're doing with your ‘business for JB' or whatever you were doing yesterday. Passing it off like it's not important makes me feel like you think I can't handle it. And that, to me, feels really patronizing.” There, it was out. He couldn't avoid it by getting all makey-outie now that the issue was on the table.

Vincent straightened. “Kate,” he said, pulling my hand to his lap and pressing it between his fingers. “It's not a question of trust. And it's not a question of not thinking you can handle it. I am in awe of your strength. It's just that”—he hesitated—“I know you won't like it. It's an experiment. And since it might not even work, I was hoping to avoid having to tell you about it.”

“I can take it, Vincent. I can take anything.”

“I know you can, Kate.” His expression was imploring now. “Believe me. But I already hate anything about myself that freaks you out, and this—trust me—is freaky. I'm afraid I would lose your respect if you knew the details. Which is why I just wanted to try it, and check it off the list of possible solutions, and move on. If it actually worked, and that's a really big ‘if,' I wanted to present it to you in a way where you could actually see the benefits, weigh them against the distasteful side of it, and help me decide whether I should continue with it.”

He watched my face carefully.

“How long does the experiment take?” I heard myself ask, while kicking myself for not digging further.

“Gaspard says we should know after two cycles of dormancy. So just over a month . . . six weeks more.”

I looked into his eyes and saw his sincerity. His utter honesty. And his determination to do whatever he could to make us work.

I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed deeply. “Okay. I trust you. But please be safe.”

“Thank you, Kate,” he said, leaning back against the wall, but keeping hold of my hand. He focused on the ceiling for a few moments, before turning to me. “There's something I've been wanting to ask you about too. Totally different subject.”

I smiled wickedly. “
I'm
up for talking about anything.”

“Why have you cut all ties with your friends in New York?”

My smile disappeared. “Except that.”

“Kate, I totally get the fact that my friends are your friends here. I don't blame you for not wanting to hang out with the kids from school. You say there's no one interesting there, and I understand that you don't want to get attached to people who will leave for their home countries after graduation.

“But your childhood friends—the people you grew up with. The way you've talked to me about them . . . it sounds like you were really close.”

“We were,” I said, my voice flat. “They even contacted Mamie after I stopped writing, but I had her tell them I wasn't in the mood to talk. They probably all hate me now.”

“I think they'd all understand why you fell out of touch last year. It was an awful time for you. You'll never get over your parents' death, I'm not even suggesting that. But you're doing better now. You're coping with life.”

“Questionable, since I hang out with a bunch of dead people.” My eyes flicked quickly to his. I hadn't meant it as a slam. And from his wry smile, I was relieved to see he hadn't taken offense.

“Okay, you're between worlds. But you've told me you never felt like you completely fit in anywhere. How did you say it? ‘Not completely American and not completely French.'

“But that doesn't mean that you should just trash those relationships you had back home. They're part of your past, Kate. We all need a past to root our present in. You can't just live in the here and now.”

“Why not?” I snapped, surprising myself by the vehemence in my voice. “Do you know what the past holds for me, Vincent?”

“Death, Kate.” His voice softened. “So does mine.”

“Vincent, all my memories are built around my family. My parents. After leaving Brooklyn, every time I talked to my friends it dragged me right back into that old life. Everything they said reminded me of home. And it hurt so badly, you can't even imagine.” My eyes flitted to his face as I remembered that his parents and fiancée had been murdered before his eyes. But he didn't look angry. If anything, he looked more caring and supportive than ever.

“Okay, you
can
imagine,” I conceded. “But Vincent, I'm not a sadist. Inflicting unnecessary pain on myself on a consistent basis is not my idea of staying healthy and sane. I can't be in touch with them. It hurts too much.”