Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (22 page)

“That’s my bridge,” Alexandre tells me with a wink.

“Because it’s so beautiful?”

“No, because it’s named after me,” he jokes. “It’s called Alexandre III.”

We cross the road and saunter towards it. At either end of the bridge are high stone columns topped with gilded, winged horses overlooking the river as if they are guarding the bridge. The whole way along the sides of the bridge, itself, are cherubs and ornate Art Deco lamps with globes of hand blown glass. Everything is in such tip-top condition, it feels like going back in time a hundred years ago. No filth or soot coats the surrounding buildings or bridge, despite the traffic. No, everything gleams and twinkles as if invisible hands were polishing the stone edifices and as if the horse statues had been gilded with gold-leaf, just last week. Alexandre tells me that it was all restored a few years ago, that the gold is real. I marvel, wondering if this would all still be in one piece if it were New York City. The Parisians must have real respect for their treasures, although he tells me the outskirts of the city are a different story with graffiti everywhere and tower blocks.

We make our way to the middle of the bridge. Behind, in the distance, is the Eiffel Tower and ahead the Seine meanders its way under more elegant bridges. There are some moored boats and barges below. The river swirls in little eddies and I instinctively clutch my belly knowing that there is life inside me; blood and fluids ebbing and flowing through my body just like the river, giving life to this newcomer – our baby. I lean over the bridge and stare into the water below, wondering what our child will be like, and grateful that I have Alexandre back in my life - that I won’t be venturing into parenthood alone.

He notices my hand spread across my stomach and asks me, “Was everything okay with your last check-up?”

“It all looked great; the ultrasound shows a tiny beating heart. Just over two more weeks until the trimester is done and then I’ll feel completely safe.”

He lays his large hand on top of mine.“You’ll be fine – it’s meant to be.”

Paris is one big superlative. Everywhere are tree-lined avenues and stunning historic buildings. I can see that it would take years to do this city justice. We meander slowly back, past the
Petit Palais
towards the
Place de la Concorde
. What I had imagined to be a quaint square is massive, boasting a towering obelisk in the middle, flanked by two grandiose fountains and more historic buildings at one end.

A frisson of excitement runs up my spine. The awesome beauty and wonder of the architecture against the icy blue of the sky, and the way the square is ideally situated so that you see the most magnificent monuments of the city, including the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysees, the Alexandre III Bridge, the Grand Palais, the Assemblée Nationale, the Tuilleries Gardens, and the Eiffel Tower, all at once, is a testament to how clever the design is. Looking at my little map, my eyes scan all around to find my bearings, even though I don’t need a map, having Alexandre by my side. I’m your archetypal American tourist with my sneakers and sensible clothes, clutching a map. Just to add to the look, I whip out my camera and take a few snaps. Alexandre stands there, amused and happy that his city is obviously giving me goose bumps and spreading such a huge grin across my face.

A skinny man in glasses rushes up beside us - we look like sitting ducks; the quintessential sightseers, at least I do. He shuffles up next to me and gushes forth in a heavy accent at breakneck speed without stopping for breath:

“It is in this place that was signed on sixth of February 1778 the Treaty of Friendships and Exchanges between King Louis Sixteenth and the thirteen States Independents of America. Benjamin Franklin counted among the signatories representing the United States… Today at the place even where the King Louis Sixteenth was guillotined, is an obelisk offered by the Egyptians. Where many people came to see falling down the heads formerly, come much there today to admire the view of the Champs-Elysées…”

We both laugh when he says, ‘Falling down of heads,’ and then Alexandre blurts out something in French. The poor man is mortified and scurries off to see if he can nab some other, more bona fide tourists.

“Poor thing wanted to be our guide for the day, I guess,” I say. “I forgot that it was you guys who invented the guillotine. Nice touch. So who got beheaded here in this square? I didn’t quite catch what that man said.”

Alexandre cocks a dark-winged eyebrow at me. “Everybody and his cousin, basically. Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI, Robespierre. They called it la ‘Place de la Révolution’ in those days. Just in one summer alone, I think it was in 1794, over a thousand people were beheaded here in this square, not to mention the bloodshed going on all over the rest of the country.”

“All because of what Marie Antoinette said, ‘Let them eat cake’ when the people complained there was no bread?”

“Supposedly, she never said that, but that’s right – the people were starving and fed up with the unfair tax system and lavish lives of the royalty and aristocracy. Everyone always imagines it was only the peasants that started the Revolution but it was several groups; the intellectuals, the bourgeoisie – even poorer members of the clergy.”

I fix my gaze at one of the beautiful stone fountains with mythical bronze figures encircling the basin. In the water below, in the bigger basin, are more characters; their torsos dark bronze, almost black; their mermen and mermaid bottom-halves a beautiful green verdigris, and the fish they hold gilded with gold leaf. Water gushes from the fishs’ mouths. Incredible.

Alexandre continues with his history lesson which is almost drowned out by the sound of gurgling water. “But before all that, things were just as gruesome. Nobility were sometimes entertained by watching convicted criminals being dismembered alive. La Place de la Révolution was payback time when the people punished the nobility for their crimes - not the other way around, as it had always been before.”

“My God, France has so much crazy history – enough to make you dizzy,” I say as I stare up at yet another sight - the Egyptian obelisk decorated with hieroglyphics - a giant red granite column pointing erect like a rocket to the sky. I smile to myself and think of Alexandre’s Weapon of Mass Destruction.

“What are you smirking about?” he asks.

“Nothing, just thinking about what you’ve been saying.”

He’s oblivious to my naughty musings and continues with his spiel. “Funnily enough, you lot contributed in some ways to the French Revolution. French troops who served as anti-British mercenaries in America during the American Revolution helped spread revolutionary ideals to the French people.”

I laugh. “So you blame us?”

“Didn’t you know? The French blame the Americans for everything. I blame you, Pearl.”

“For what?”

“For causing a revolution in my heart.”

“To have a sexy Frenchman telling me things like that in Paris, itself, is almost sinful.”

“I can shut up if you like.” He winks at me and a little tremor capsizes my insides. I think of my baby and wonder if he (or she) can feel what I feel; the thrill of absolute love.

I squeeze his hand, glove on glove. “Don’t you dare. I want to hear sweet talk for the rest of my life.”

Alexandre suddenly envelops his arms about my hips and lifts me into the air, the way my father sometimes did when I was a child. I wrap my legs about him and we kiss. When he sets me down he says, “It feels good, doesn’t it, baby, knowing we’re getting married? Knowing we share each other’s secrets? I’ve carried such a burden all these years. What my mother did, my abusive past. Now Laura. Thank God it’s all out in the open, finally.”

I reply, “I know. What a relief.”

As unexpected as the lift was, Alexandre’s cell rings. It makes us both jump. He fishes it out of his coat pocket, looks at it and connects the call. “Hi Daisy, where are you all? We’re kind of slowly making our way to Notre Dame – very slowly, walking and talking about charming things like decapitated rolling heads and…” He pauses to listen. “You’ve done all that already? Jesus! Alright, we’ll meet for ice cream. We probably won’t have one as we’re on our way to lunch – well Pearl should, ice-cream is good for her but…perfect. See you there in an hour and a half.” He looks at me. “I know it’s winter but this ice cream place is very famous.” Just as he’s putting his phone back in his pocket, it rings again. “Daisy?” But his smile quickly vanishes - a dusky cloud sweeps across his face.

“Who is it?” I mouth, fearing I already know the answer.

Alexandre’s lips twitch with a mixture of sadness and anger. “Look, Laura, just calm down.” He says nothing, just rolls his eyes. I can hear her screaming through the line, although what she’s saying isn’t clear. “I can’t alright, I have commitments,” he says through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched.

I look up at him expectantly, terrified Laura’s going to steal him from me – steal our happiness away like the thief she is.

“I told you, I can’t fucking well come right now. I have a meeting, I have—” he bites his lip, closes his lids and lets out a menaced groan. She has obviously slammed the receiver down on him. When he opens his eyes again, the green of his irises shine like wet moss. He shoots me an apologetic glance and says, “If I don’t go now, she’s going to do something crazy. She’s going nuts.”

“What about lunch with your mother?”

“You’ll have to go on ahead without me.”

“No way, Alexandre. No. I want to meet your mom with you there.”

“Okay, I understand. Well, we’ll just have to postpone it, then, and go when I return.”

“When will you be back?”

He rakes his hands furiously through his hair. “As soon as I fucking can. Jesus, this bitch is ruining our lives - I could fucking kill her!”

“You mean, you’re going to just leave, right now?”

“I have no choice. You could come with me if you like.”

“Somehow, I think that might make things worse.”

“You’re right. If I can get back late tonight, I will. If not, I’ll be back tomorrow by midday. I need to sort this shit out, once and for all.”

“What are you going to say? Tell her you’ll go ahead with the IVF?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “I just don’t know.”

“Are you going to the airport, right now?”

“That, or the train, which actually might be faster; it’s so quick these days - just over two hours. I need to go back to the hotel to get my passport first, just in case I do end up flying. You can get some rest.”

“If you’re not going to be hanging out at the hotel with me, there’s no point. I’ll carry on with my walk and meet Daisy, as arranged.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a big girl. This is Paris not South Central L.A.”

“Well, if you’re sure. You can’t go wrong and you’ve got your map.” He points left. “Go through the park, Le Jardin des Tuileries – you’ll hit the Louvre – then head across one of the bridges to Isle St-Louis. The ice cream place is famous, it’s called Berthillon Glacier. The little island next to it, Ile de la Cité, is right where Notre Dame is. Here, take this.” He stuffs a massive wad of Euro notes in my hand and a credit card. “My code is 1492 – Fourteen ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. You can withdraw as much cash as you need or punch in that code when you buy things. Treat yourself to whatever you want; go on a spree.”

“Don’t be silly, Alexandre, I have money.”

He widens his eyes as if to say, ‘don’t argue’ and holds me tight against his chest. “I love you, Pearl. Have fun today. Don’t exhaust yourself. Just jump in a cab if you get tired. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”

“I don’t have a cell phone, remember.”

“I know. But you can call me any time from the hotel and I think you should stay in tonight anyway, and take it easy.”

“I will, I’ll order room service. I mean, hello, how much punishment is it to slob out in one of the most beautiful hotels in the world?”

“Get Daisy and Amy over – they can spend the night; we might as well make use of that big suite.”

“Good idea.” I look square into his eyes which are flickering with fear. I have never seen him look that way. Ever. “I love you, Alexandre. Good luck with ‘you know who.’ I’ll support whatever you decide.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that. Although, what that decision will be, I haven’t the faintest fucking idea.” He gives me a weak smile then hugs me again. We kiss but the kiss isn’t romantic. How can it be with Laura as good as standing, right there, between us? He turns on his heel to go and we both look back several times, hardly bearing to let go of each other, even for one second, let alone the whole night.

L
aura is infiltrating my mind, polluting the beauty I see about me like toxic waste in a meadow. Ten minutes ago, the world was awash with perfection but sank instantly with one jarring phone call.

The Tuileries Gardens are bleak in winter yet breathtakingly beautiful, but I walk along with misty eyes, wishing that Alexandre hadn’t been snatched away from me and wondering how in the world he’s going to extricate himself from Laura’s tangled web. Is it possible that he can convince her to drop this madness? I doubt it. I can’t see a way out of this. One thing I have learned about him is his fierce loyalty to his loved ones – he won’t let his mother down, of that I’m sure. He feels responsible – had he not gotten involved, those stupid, hip bits and teeth remnants would still be hidden in her attic. It’s true; in a sense it is his fault that Laura got her bony hands on it all. But poor man, how could he have envisioned what could have ensued? How could
anybody
have imagined? Not even the script writers for
CSI
could come up with such an insane scenario.

The only good thing about having my eyes on the ground, as I scurry along through the park (to avoid people’s stares – I’m crying shamelessly now) – is that I miss stepping in some dog poop right in my path. Yes, I’d heard Paris was famous for that. Just like Laura, it is unexpected; a blight on perfection. The gardens have an air of formality with flower beds set out in a pattern; gravel paths lined with rows of trees, so the dog shit seems incongruous here where everything is in such order. A mess left to be picked up by some innocent bystander, or for someone to tread in and have smeared all over their shoe. I think of Laura again – it is as if the dog shit is a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.