Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (23 page)

I sit down on a stone bench to pull myself together and get my breath back. Not from the walk, but the torrent of emotions churning around my body, draining me of oxygen. I want my baby to feel serene and peaceful inside me, not all riled up and bubbling with rage. Surely they can feel everything?

I raise my head up to the sky as a cloud lifts with the breeze and the blue is once again revealed. A warm sun is welcome with the biting chill and I let it caress my cold cheeks. That feels so good. I think of our baby, again, and take my iPod out of my Birkin and go through my playlist until I find what I’m looking for –
Here Comes the Sun
by George Harrison. I mustn’t dwell on Laura. Just a couple of months ago, I thought I had lost Alexandre for good but our bond is stronger than ever. I have
him
and his baby and that’s what counts, no matter what happens with this IVF threat. Alexandre loves me, not Laura.
That
is what I am holding onto right now. And I need to trust him to make the right decision.

“This song’s for you, little baby,” I tell my belly, smoothing my gloved hand over myself. And it’s true; the being inside me
is
the sun. Maybe even the ‘son.’ I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, I am just grateful, and pray that I’ll make it to the first trimester, and there won’t be any complications with the birth and that he, or she, will be healthy.

The song has lifted my spirits and I continue walking. I’m feeling positive and hopeful. If Alexandre can manage all the thousands of people who work for him in his multi-billion dollar empire, surely he can handle Laura. I have faith. It
will
work out.

As I wander through the park, I have the sensation that I’m meandering through an open-air museum, and I’m glad for the distraction. There are classical marble sculptures dotted everywhere – characters from Greek myths and some modern ones, too. A few people are sitting on metal garden chairs placed along the paths or about the octagonal pond. It seems that it is forbidden to sit on the grass in this park, even in summer. I watch water spurt out of the pond’s fountain but my gaze gets distracted by a huge Ferris wheel in the distance with the Louvre in the background.

As I approach, I soak up the pure majesty of the Louvre set like a horseshoe in an expansive courtyard – the space in front giving the facade the added grandeur it merits. The modern glass pyramid (that caused such a stir when it was first erected) seems like a rebellious teenager in contrast to the classical Renaissance of the Louvre - probably the most famous museum in the world, once a royal palace. The vast glass and metal pyramid is surrounded by three smaller ones. Being able to see through the pyramid is interesting because it doesn’t block out the honey-colored stone of the old Louvre behind. But if I tilt my head, the reflection of clouds gives it a different feel. Do I like the Pyramid? I’m still not sure. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s interesting and probably something that needs a lot of mulling over. I could stand here and pontificate all day long.

But I can’t, and there’s no chance of a visit or I’ll be late meeting Daisy. So I continue on my merry way, still humming
Here Comes the Sun
and blanking out my thoughts from any word beginning with L.

I come across a little pedestrian bridge with wooden decking which I realize is the famous
Pont des Arts.
All over the sides are little padlocks clipped to the railings – ‘lovelocks’ with names of lovers written or engraved on each one. One even says ‘Bonnie and Clyde.’ Another rusted one, has a pink lipstick mark with scratched-on hearts and the initials B and P at each end. Everlasting, locked love, left in Paris. I wonder how many of these couples are still together. As I am reading some of the messages, a man in a black wool hat tells me, “Zee Pont des Arts used to be one of my favorite bridges, now I can’t stand to see it. I bet zaire is some jerk selling padlocks near ze bridge, with little hearts on them. He should be shot.”

I turn around, surprised that he’s talking to me in English. How does he know I’m not French? Do I look so obviously like a tourist? But then I realize I still have the map in my hand. “Oh, you don’t like the padlocks?” I ask. “You don’t think it’s romantic?”

“Ze Pont des Arts used to be a beautiful, delicate bridge, now it looks like it’s covered wiz some kind of metallic disease in zis mindless graffiti rusting on ze padlocks. Zis and ze dog crap everywhere.” He gesticulates with his arms in the air and blows out air through his lips.

“Yes, I noticed the dog poop,” I reply, and Laura shoots into my mind again. “Well bye, have a nice day. Au revoir,” I say, and scurry off in the direction of Notre Dame.

I swing my Reverso watch around to Parisian time and see that I won’t have a chance to go inside Notre Dame, itself, or I’ll be late for Daisy and her gang. The cathedral looks majestic in its Gothic glory, commanding the ancient Île de la Cité with its flying buttresses and extraordinary gargoyles. It’s both a chilling and comforting thought to know that heads once rolled in Paris, yet this great stone building still remains through all that turmoil – more real to us than what was once flesh and blood – people that are now no more than words in a history book.

I know I’ll need time to explore Notre Dame to do it justice. I shouldn’t be worried – I am marrying a
Frenchman,
for Pete’s sake - Paris isn’t going anywhere fast, so I shouldn’t feel I need to do a whirlwind sightseeing trip all in one day.
Chill out, Pearl.
Take your time.

I pass a man playing Edith Piaff’s
Non, Je Ne
Regrette Rien
on an accordion, and I think back to the conversation I had with Alexandre in L.A. about regrets, life and external forces. The evidence he didn’t destroy – that’s sure to be one of his regrets.

The smell of something deliciously sweet wafts before me, and when I turn the corner, there is a wheeled cart with a knobbly-faced old man selling honeyed almonds. I buy a little bag – the last thing I want is ice-cream right now; it’s simply too cold. Honeyed almonds are far more tempting.

When I arrive at the ice cream parlor, I see the posse of exhausted twelve year-olds licking their cones with great concentration. Daisy is in a heated discussion with Mary, one of the teachers, and Amy is looking up adoringly at the eldest child in the group; a girl named Vanessa.

“Daisy!” I shout. Amy rushes over and flings her little arms about my legs.

“Auntie Pearl!” I have been promoted to ‘auntie’ since Christmas.

“Hi guys, hi Mary, hi Susan – hey girls have you been having fun?” I ask the small crowd. They all start shouting at once, squealing about their adventures and discussing which of the outings has been their favorite, so far.

We chat about how beautiful Paris is, and they relay their activities which have been non-stop since dawn. A bus ride, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame – I’m exhausted just listening to it.

Then Daisy mouths to me silently, “Take me away from this, Pearl, I’m wiped out!”

I laugh and whisper, “Do you want to come and hang out in the lap of luxury?”

“Yes, I bloody well do! But just us, not the whole lot ‘cause they’re too wild and excitable.” She turns to Susan and says, “Would you mind if Amy and I go off with Pearl for the rest of the day?”

Susan, a lanky woman with glasses and a Trilby hat (who reminds me of Diane Keaton in
Annie Hall
) replies, “Throwing in the towel already, you lightweight?”

“Yes I am, because I know what’s next and I think Amy’s a little young for it.”

“What have you all got planned?” I ask.

“A bicycle tour around the city with a company called Fat Tire.”

“
Tire
being the operative word,” I joke.

“We saw them this morning by the Eiffel Tower, it looked really fun,” Susan tells me. “Perfect for the girls.”

“Wow, you lot are going to know Paris like the back of your hands by the end of this trip. It puts me to shame.”

“Shall we get going, then?” Daisy asks eagerly. “Come on Amy, we’re going with Pearl back to her hotel.”

“Mommy, I want to stay.”

Daisy hesitates but then tells her, “No, sweetie, you’re still too young. But you’ll be back with the big girls tomorrow, all day.”

“I hate my age,” Amy grumbles to her mother with a pout. “It sucks being five.”

“Rubbish. Five is the best age ever. Now come on, or we’ll be late for lunch.”

Mary, the other teacher on this trip, bustles up to me and says, “Thank you Pearl, you have no idea what this means to the girls - and to us, too. This is an experience of a lifetime.” She is the antithesis to Susan and they look like a comic duo. Mary is so round and podgy, all you want to do is squeeze her; next to Susan’s towering skinny frame, they could be a female version of Laurel and Hardy.

I smile and reply, “It’s not me, but my fiancé. It was his idea. He’s the one who organized everything.”

“He’s so incredibly generous! I mean, our apartment is divine. The spending money he gave us is way too much…I feel…I mean…I don’t know how to
repay
that level of kindness, I don’t—”

“Just knowing how much fun you’re having in France will be payment enough, believe me. He’s the kind of person who gets a real kick out of helping people and seeing he can make a small difference.”

“I mean, these kids haven’t even been out of the Bronx and now one of them is saying she wants to be a pilot, to fly a private jet, one day.”

“You see, that’s what seeing another slice of life can do,” I tell her.

I can tell that Vanessa is Amy’s crush. She’s an elegant black girl with soulful, sparkling eyes. She bounds up to us and exclaims, “And I’m going to live here in Paris when I grow up, and learn to speak French.”

Amy tugs on her mom’s coat and asks, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“To the Marais. I’m treating you and Pearl.”

“What’s the Marais?”

“It’s a neighborhood, darling.
Marais
means swamp in French – that’s what it was hundreds of years ago. Now it has itty bitty winding streets and lots of galleries, beautiful medieval buildings and amazing boutiques. I’ll buy you a present, if you’re a good girl.”

“I’m always good.” Amy looks up at me with her large brown eyes as if to gain an ally and I laugh.

“I’ll buy you a gift, too,” I whisper, “and maybe you can choose something for each and every one of the girls.”

“Cool!”

“See you guys later,” Daisy says, linking arms with me and Amy, and pulling us off in the direction of Le Marais.

I wave the group goodbye and I feel relieved that I have a distraction from straying thoughts of Laura and the damage that she’s sure to be planning. Let’s hope Alexandre can stop her.

How, I don’t know, but I’m sure he’ll come up with something.

A
lexandre forced himself to relax against the soft leather of the back seat of the Daimler; anything to ease the tension gathering like sailor’s knots in his shoulders. He had Laura on his mind; He was now being driven to her house in Chelsea - she was expecting him.

He and Sophie always used this chauffeur when they came to London; it was so much easier than messing about with diesel-belching taxis with chatty Cockney drivers who wanted to talk about the weather. Not that he was knocking them, no – they were the most knowledgeable taxi drivers of probably any city in the world. They had to pass an exam called The Knowledge, could take you to any tiny corner of London by memory – but still, having a private chauffeur was one of the perks of having money to burn. And it was one of his secret pleasures.

It still felt at odds, that…being so bloody wealthy, yet it was something Alexandre never took for granted. It seemed only yesterday when he was rummaging through his jeans’ pockets or picking coins off the floor to scrape up enough money to buy a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Being poor stank, but being rich and not appreciating what you had was worse. That’s why he needed to justify that private jet – it made him feel too guilty to swan about the globe in jets without good reason. He felt it was only fair to spread the wealth a bit and share his good fortune. He hoped those Bronx girls were having fun and didn’t see it as ‘charity,’ though. He hated that, being the magnanimous ‘do-gooder’. No, it was simply a question of dividing things out, like buying a round of drinks at the pub – a British tradition that he liked. If you had the money, it was your ‘round’ and if you didn’t have enough from your paycheck that week, never mind – you’d do it another day – your mate would pay instead.

Your mate. The pub. That’s where he’d met Laura. She was there with a group of friends and they’d started up a conversation. Strange that – as beautiful as Laura was, Alexandre never did have that ‘love at first sight’ thing with her, the way he did with Pearl. It was more a case of feeling lonely in a new city, a need for companionship. They got talking and then soon started going out to movies together, or art exhibitions. It was a nice change from hanging out with Sophie all the time, and Sophie was in Paris, anyway. He didn’t like male company so much, either – it reminded him of
La Légion
and all its madness. When he arrived in London all those years ago, he felt lonely, screwed-up; he needed a friend, wanted some female company, and Laura was right there.

La Légion…a part of his life he’d rather forget. He’d joined up at fifteen, an underage romantic idealist. Death seemed glamorous at the time – even welcome. The French Foreign Legion was infamous for having one of the highest fatality rates of any modern military. He wanted to be one of the ‘chosen ones’ - feel that he could stand amongst the world’s hardest and not even blink.

There were three types of people who joined La Legion. The men who needed to be there, because they had nothing else, the fly-by-night dreamers, and the complete, fucking lunatics.

He never had been sure which category he fit into best – perhaps a mixture of all three.

Alexandre remembered the eerie words of one guy, an Australian, who said, ‘I’ll get a second chance at achieving something real, anything, even if it’s just a shallow grave.’