Frankie in Paris (18 page)

She
stood on one side of the car, and I stood on the other, like boxers in a
ring.
 
We didn't make eye contact, or any
sound, at all.
 
All I could hear was the
attendant breathing.
 

Reaching
the esplanade, I quickly exited and she followed me.
 
I stood on the curb, waiting for a taxi
—
fervently praying that the black Mercedes would not pull up
—
and one finally pulled over for me.
 

This
one had a sign on top of the vehicle, which was illuminated from the
inside.
 
A legitimate cab.
 
As I slid into the seat and began to tell the
driver where I wanted to go, an unwanted passenger slid into the seat next to
me.
    

Studying
the back of the driver’s head, I didn’t acknowledge my grandmother.
 
Our chauffeur had grey hair and a small brown
mole on his left ear.
 
He was wearing a
gold necklace, but that was all I could discern from my angle.

***

We
arrived at the
Hôtel de Lutèce
, and she paid for our ride.
 

Without
thanking her, I got out of the car from my side and hustled into the building, not
holding the door open for Lulu.
 
It
almost hit her
—
I could hear her reaction behind me
—
but she caught it in time.
 

Henri
looked at me with a curious expression on his kind face, but I held up one hand
to let him know that I was not available for socializing that evening.
 

People
exited the elevator, and I stepped in after they came out, punching the button,
hoping to save myself from another uncomfortable ride.
 
Luck had deserted me:
 
this time, she stared at me with her hands on
her hips, but I did my best to pretend that she wasn't there.
 

On
our floor, I quickly tramped down the hall to our room
—
then realized that I didn’t have a key.
 
Since I was going to be with Lulu, I left it
on the table in our room because I thought I wouldn’t need it.
 
She chuckled behind me, sounding like a
wicked witch.
 
A really little one.
    

I
stepped aside, but I still didn’t dare look in her direction.

Speed-walking
to the bathroom, I slammed the door.
 
Wanting
to mask the sound of my oncoming anxiety attack (the one from earlier in the
evening was still looming), I turned the shower on, full-blast.
 
I did it the way that everyone else does,
because my brain hurt from the exertion of pulling that tiny weight up from plunging
to the ground
—
probably saving some poor unsuspecting
tourist from being beaned with Lulu’s small change. With my back against the
door, I slid to the ground and waited for sobs to surface.
 

They
didn’t.

I
took a breath, scrunched my eyes, and waited for a few more seconds to see if
they still might decide to come out.
 
No
attack.
 
Maybe I was sort of normal,
after all.

Deciding
to take a shower, anyway, I let the scalding water cascade down my nose.
 
I wanted to burn this incredibly degrading
day away, forever.
 

I
felt a lot better when I climbed out than I had when I climbed in
—but
still didn’t want to speak to my
grandmother.
 
How will I handle the rest of our trip?
 
On one hand, I didn’t want her to get
arrested for being the reckless, impulsive person that she was.
 
Having me around had already saved her.
 

On
the other hand, I could not stand being around her for the time being.
 
I just
couldn’t.
 

My
nerves felt as though they were the taught strings of a guitar
—m
ore like a violin
—
and Lulu was
holding the bow and not being very careful with it.
 
The song that she was playing had a bunch of
wrong notes, and the tempo was all over the place, on the verge of breaking one
or more of the strings.

So I
was in a bit of a quandary.
 
I didn’t
know how I would get from the bathroom
—
wearing a towel
—
to my suitcase, without having to speak to the villain on the
other side of the door.

Tucking
my dirty clothes under my arm, and wrapping the towel tight with one hand, I
used
 
the other to turn the
doorknob.
 
Using my doorknob-turning hand
to shield my face from the other room occupant
—
I was a movie
star, Lulu the Paparazzi
—
I made my way to
my the teal suitcase.
 

My
pajamas were missing, until I found them tucked under my pillow.
 
I grabbed them, switched my “shield arm,”
cruised back to the bathroom and re-slammed the door.
 

This
all happened in roughly twenty seconds.
 

Breathing
heavily as I dressed, I knew this was pretty absurd behavior, but I was in
survival mode at that point.
 

“Francesca?
 
Er, I mean, Francis?
 
Frank?”
 
She pounded on the bathroom door.
 
I didn’t answer, just paused for a quick second, then continued dressing
—and heavy breathing
.

When
I thought the coast was clear, I exited the bathroom and hurried to my
bed.
 
Jumping under the covers, I pulled
them over my head and turned toward the wall.
 
Lulu was mumbling from the other bed.
 

My
headset was on the floor where I had left it, and I put the headphones over my
ears.
 
Loud punk music made me more
homesick than ever.
 
I could see Rich’s
face, then my mother's, in my mind.

I
just wanted to go home.
 
If I never see Paris-freaking-France again,
as long as I lived, it would suit me just fine.

Then
I was out.

My eyes popped open.
 

The first thing I saw was the stain on the
ceiling.
 
It wasn’t George Washington any
longer.
 
It was… well, I think it was… it
was Lulu, dammit!
 
It was Lulu’s
profile:
 
poufy hair, round face—no doubt
about it
.
 
I just couldn’t get away from her!

If
 
I was
quiet enough, I might be able to escape her for the morning
.
 
I turned my head slowly to
look at her sleeping form, trying not to make any noise.
 
But, there
wasn’t any sleeping form!
 
The
bathroom door was wide open, and no one was inside.
 
She
was the one who had escaped!

I quickly dressed and combed my silent-film-era
hair.
 
The newly shortened length
wouldn’t obediently stay down on my head, so I had to wet it.
 
Water was splashing everywhere in my haste to
dampen my locks.
   

Once my hair was presentable, I slicked on my
lipstick and powdered my face.
 

Where the
heck is my grandmother?

I only had a few clean outfits left to
wear.
 
Selecting some black pants and a
white, sleeveless blouse, I carefully tied my passport under my shirt.
 

The room seemed dark, so I looked out and up
the window and saw clouds.
 
Not an inch
of blue within our patch of visible sky.
 
Maybe this meant a cooler temperature.
 
Wouldn’t that be fantastic?
 
I was planning to pay a visit to Jim Morrison
and figured that some light hiking might be required.
 

I wanted to get a move on, before my chaperon
returned—so that I could ditch her altogether.
 
Call it preservation of sanity. Or rather, preservation of whatever
sanity I had remaining.
 

It took forever to lace up my Docs.
 
My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I hurried
to lace them to the top, so I used TK to twist them into place.

***

Pierced Eyebrow was behind the front desk.
 
I thought that maybe I should actually find
out his name one of these days.
       

I waved my fingers in his direction, but didn’t
slow down.
 
Lulu was in the little dining
room having her morning croissant—I would bet on it—but I didn’t want to risk
peeking inside.
 
I almost made it out the
front door when I realized that I didn’t have a map with me and returned to the
desk.

“
Bonjour
,”
I smiled at my would-be date.

“
Bonjour
!”
 
He flashed his bright white teeth and leaned
in toward me.
 

“Uhm.
 
Comment vous appelez-vous
?”

“My name is François.
 
Eet eez like Francis, in your country.”
 

I laughed out loud.

“
Qu’est-ce
que c’est
?”
 

“
My
name is Francis.”

He laughed too.

“What a terrific name,
non
?”
 
I nodded my head.

“Can I have a map, please?
 
I am going to
Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise
today.”
 
The one that Henri had given to
me was in our room, but I didn’t want to risk bumping into Public Enemy Number
One.
 

“Too bad I am working, or I would join you on
your adventure.”
 
As he handed it to me,
a chunk of blonde hair fell over one eye, and his gaze was suddenly a little
too intense for my taste. He sure was cute.
 
FrenchLips.

“Well, I better get going… ”
 

“Stay dry out zere.
 
Eet eez supposed to rain today.
 
Beeg storm is coming.”
 
Somehow he even managed to make his advice
sound sultry.
 
I had to yank on the map a
little before he let go.

“Oh, okay.”
 
As I was backing away from the counter,
 
I wondered what kind of shoes he was wearing.
 
Using my arms to lift my body up over the top
of the desk, I looked down at his feet.
 
François
stepped back in surprise.

Oxblood Docs.
 
The boy had good taste in boots.
 
We shared more than just a name, it seemed.
 

Waving maniacally, I did a pirouette and ran
out the door with my map.

***

This was my first ride on the Metro, all by
myself.
 
Sitting on a bench underground,
I waited for the next train to come by.
 
My map showed that it wasn’t a very long ride, with three stops that I
could choose from: the Philippe Auguste station, the Gambetta station, or the
Père-Lachaise
station. That probably meant that it was one big
cemetery.
 
I hoped that I wouldn’t get
lost.

I chose the stop that was actually called “
Père-Lachaise
” —a good sign, I thought.
 
It was the side entrance to the cemetery.

Sitting alone in the car, I felt less
exhilarated than I had anticipated.
 
Worlds more vulnerable, though.
 
My purse was slung across my body, but I held it tight in my lap,
finding some comfort in being able to feel the muslin pouch hidden underneath
my clothing.
  

Through the windows, I could see the
advertisement posters whizzing by on the tunnel walls.
 
It was so quiet without Lulu next to me...
 

At one point, the doors slid open, and in
walked the mime, which I had been dreading for my entire trip.
 
Only he didn’t look at all depraved.
 
Wearing the foreseen black and white striped
shirt and black leggings, he gave off an aura of complete benevolence. He
did
have a twirly black moustache, but
he also had a spare tire around his middle.
 

Careful not to smudge his white face makeup, he
tied a red handkerchief around his neck.
  

The street performer across from me—without
speaking, of course—got up when he reached his journey’s end.
 
Off to entertain, without one attempt to
abduct or abuse me!

It was like an omen.
 
My solo day was off to an excellent start.
When my destination came into view, I stood up and exited with a confident
smile.
 

I hadn’t missed where I was supposed to be. No
one had sung drunken children’s songs.
 
No one had fallen on top of anyone else.
 
No one had been detained by security guards.
 
What a blissfully boring trip this was
turning out to be—mime and all!

Walking up the stairs, I could feel that the
weather had become drastically different from what we had been experiencing
since our arrival.
 
Once I reached the
top, I could see that François’ prediction had been correct.
 
The clouds were hanging low enough to make
mist materialize on my arms. Many people were prepared with raincoats and
umbrellas.
 
But most were like me:
 
dressed for a hot July day.
 

I delighted in the goose bumps popping up all
over the exposed areas of my body.
 
What
a wonderful relief the cool air was after the last few humid days.
 
There probably wouldn’t be any ice in our
hotel room that afternoon.

***

A tall grey concrete wall stretched along the
sidewalk.
 
It had a square opening, with
ornate carvings all around the sides and tops of it.
 
On either side were carved torches, and I
could see gravesites through the doorway.

Jim Morrison, lead singer for
The Doors
, was in there somewhere.

Slowly advancing through the entrance to
Père
Lachaise
Cemetery
, I felt a powerful breeze lift the hair off of my
forehead.
 
Shivering, I continued through
the entrance.

There wasn’t another soul in sight.
 
I chuckled under my breath because I was
pretty sure that there were
plenty of
souls
around me—just none that I could
see
.
 
Badumpbump.

The sun was completely covered by clouds, making
the place gloomy and somber.
 
The stones
and tombs were all in various shades of white, grey, and black.
 
Crucifixes peppered the length of visible
monuments.
 
I could have been standing on
the set of some black and white gothic music video.

There weren’t just headstones; in fact there
were very few plain headstones, at all.
 
Like
a macabre art show, beautiful little buildings of all shapes and sizes lined
stone streets, as far as the eye could see.

Many of the graves had sculptures of angels,
women, or other beautiful things.
 
Some
were carved in marble, and most had pieces missing, from wear and age.
 
The majority of the statues were made from
some type of metal, like bronze, maybe.
 
It felt like a voodoo cemetery in New
Orleans.
 

There were poles with green street signs on
top. But they were all in French—
duh
—and
I didn’t know where I was supposed to be going, anyway.
 
The streets looked just like the ones
outside, as if I were traveling in some alternate world:
 
The
World of the Dead
.
 
 
This time the impending storm wasn't to blame
for my shivering.

How on
earth am I going to find Jim Morrison?
 
The place was
so huge
.
 
In all directions,
there were stone formations.
 
Had I
expected him to be at the front, as a greeter and usher?
 
Had I thought there would be blinking lights
and a neon arrow above his final resting place?
 

I guess I
had
expected something like that.

Tiny pinpricks of cold water landed along my
bare arms.
 
It felt wonderful,
invigorating.
 
I optimistically began my
pursuit of my buddy Jim.

Purposefully, I started down one of the
streets, praying that I might stumble upon the resident whom I was seeking. All
around me were bizarre memorials to those who had moved on to the other
side.
 

Staring, open-mouthed, my feet became cemented
at the foot of a sculpture of a toddler.
 
It was life-size and looked as though the child was sleeping.
 
He or she was wrapped in a stone blanket,
with one small foot uncovered.
 
Its head
lay on a hard, cold pillow, but the bed was shaped suspiciously like a coffin.
 
A cold arm was bent at the elbow and resting
on its chest, just below round cheeks and a little round chin.
 
If that
isn’t creepy, then I don’t know what is.

Keep
moving, sister!
 
I didn’t want to visit with this dead child
any longer.
 

A headstone, larger and taller than I, had
green moss growing up the sides of it.
 
A
black bird, probably a crow, used the top as a perch, its beady eyes following
my tentative travel.

Lightly jogging around a corner, I found myself
face to face with the bust of a man.
 
I
didn’t recognize his name, but he looked a lot like an old-fashioned judge to
me.
 
He was covered in patina, leaving
him a paranormal, bright sea-foam green.
 
Wearing an antiquated vest and jacket, with a large cravat around his
neck, he reminded me of singing busts at a haunted house.
 
I half expected him to begin serenading me
and didn’t wait around to see if he would.

Trees formed a green-grey canopy above, but I
could tell that it wouldn’t keep the rain out for long.
 
Large, pregnant drops had begun to gather
around the edges of leaves.

I might
have more luck if I leave the cobblestone streets and move between the
gravesites.
 
Stepping up onto the grass, I squeezed
between two of the house-like mausoleums.
 
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was starring in a vampire film.
 
Out in the open, away from the overhanging
foliage, rain was falling freely.
 
It
spattered across my face and onto my shoulders.