The Harem (26 page)

“What are you doing here? Wait… How did you—”

“Oh, I’m on my vacation, Dr. Bichon, staying at the Hotel Negresco and I saw you on the beach during my morning swim…”

“Uh-huh…”

She was, of course, immediately on to me. I greeted her father with a handshake and her mother with a kiss on each cheek and then dived into my memorized cover story, sure that I was butchering the pronunciation so badly to make what I was saying sound unintelligible. I was nervous now that the speech was too awkward and overly formal, like the practice conversations at the beginning of my first French lessons, but it was too late to turn back now. It went something like this…

“Donc cela doit etre votre mere et votre pere. Bonne journee a vous. Permettez-moi de me presenter. Mon nom est Jeremy Stinson. J’ai rencontre votre fille lorsque je travaillais pour une societe pharmaceeutiques dan le Maryland. Pour moi, c’ etait l’amour a premiere vue. Bien sur, tout le monde est enchante par Chantelle, et je ne suis, helas, a la fin des pretendants en une longue lignee, en attente de ma chance de gagner la main de votre fille. Quelle coincidence heureuse de vous rencontrer ici!” (So this must be your mother and father. Good day to you. Let me introduce myself. My name is Jeremy Stinson. I met your daughter when I worked for a pharmaceutical company in Maryland. For me it was love at first sight. Of course, everyone is enchanted by Chantelle and I am, sadly, at the end of a long line of suitors, waiting for my chance to win your daughter’s hand. What a happy coincidence to meet you here!)

Chantelle and her parents stood on the beach staring at me like I had just stepped out of a spaceship from Mars. I knew then that what I said probably sounded like gibberish. Her father spoke up and put me at ease.

“My dear man, I’m an American, with dual citizenship, and my wife is fluent in both French and English. In fact, she regularly beats me in Scrabble, so shall we talk in English?”

“OK, thanks, Monsieur Bichon. I only just started studying French a few weeks ago, as I’m sure you can tell.”

I clarified my story that I met Chantelle at GU as a drug representative, but now own a condominium complex in Maryland. I asked her parents how they had met. Her Father said he was a young teacher of English as a second language in San Diego and she was a foreign exchange student. They fell madly in love.

As we talked, I glanced over at Chantelle. She was smiling and biting her lower lip.

“Oh, I see! You fell in love with one of your students, Monsieur Bichon! But was that ethical?”

“It may not have been ethical, but Ms. Bichon was so pretty I could not resist!” Monsieur Bichon said, smiling and squeezing his wife around the waist.

“Hmmm. All men are like ze dogs, no?” Madam Bichon said.

“Oui. Of course, they are. Exactement, Madam Bichon!” I said.

I told Chantelle’s parents what a skilled physician their daughter was and how proud they must feel about her fellowship at UCLA. Chantelle smiled and continued to stare at me, wondering how I found out about her future plans. I invited the family to dine with me at the Hotel Negresco’s Le Chantecler Restaurant. At first they resisted due to the expense, but I insisted. We planned to meet for an early dinner. They invited me to sunbathe with them and I rested next to Chantelle, falling asleep for about an hour on the beach. When I opened my eyes, Chantelle was gazing down at me, her oiled skin shimmering in the rays of the sun. I could see her parents walking hand in hand by the sea.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Chantelle said.

“Chantelle…”

“I put some suntan lotion on your back. You looked like you may get a burn.”

“Oh, merci.”

“OK. How did you find me?”

“It was purely by coincidence, my Belle. I told you, I vacation regularly in Nice—”

“Tell me the truth, Sheremy. And how did you find out about my UCLA fellowship?”

“Ok, I overheard you tell Dr. Billingsley about your vacation plans and fellowship before I entered his office for our meeting.”

“You listened in on a private conversation? You spy!”

“I flew to Nice and your name and address was still in the directory. I sat in the café next door watching the entrance to your building until I saw you go across the street to the beach with your parents. You look so pretty with your makeup, Dr. Bichon. I like what you’ve done to your hair too. Are you wearing contacts? You smell good too. What is that scent? Lancome? Chanel?”

“So, you’re stalking me now?”

“Did you like how I emerged from the sea?”

“Yes, you look very attractive in that swim suit.”

“Not too loud, Dr. Bichon. The AMA has agents everywhere. Trust no one.”

“Sheremy, stop it.”

“No, I’m serious. I think they were on to us at Potomac Fields. I saw a man in a Fedora follow me out of the airport.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I am, Ma Cherie.”

“You know, my parents are very open-minded. You didn’t have to make up that silly story.”

“What? Did you want me to tell them that I’m a dangerous escaped mental patient you treated a few weeks ago who traveled half way around the world to track you down?”

“You’re not dangerous and you didn’t escape, you were discharged.”

“Did you think your parents want to hear the real story of how we met?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right. Here they come.”

Chantelle took her parents back to the condo to rest. Before meeting for dinner, I met with the manager of the restaurant to arrange a tasting of several of their finest wines and arranged a four course meal which lasted for hours. After the long meal, I escorted them back to their condo. Madam Bichon invited me inside for dessert. We played cards, Scrabble and talked until Chantelle’s parents retired to their room for the night.

“I suppose I should go too. I’ve kept you up late,” I said.

Chantelle walked me to the elevator.

“I had such a wonderful day and evening with you, Sheremy.”

“I hope you didn’t mind me elbowing in on your vacation with your parents.”

“No, I can tell they adore you. Thank you for the wonderful dinner.”

There was a long silence. Chantelle took my hands and gave them a squeeze.

“Don’t you want to give me a kiss goodnight, after coming all this way to see me?” Chantelle asked.

“I would, Dr. Bichon. I really would like you to. But I’m still afraid, because of the power imbalance between, the kiss could lead to my feeling sexually used by you…”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am.”

I gave her cheeks a kiss and pressed the down arrow on the elevator.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Of course, Sheremy. But if you refuse to kiss me goodnight, you must at least stop calling me Dr. Bichon.”

“That I will do… Chantelle.”

The elevator arrived. I stepped in, looked at her and winked as the doors shut.

The next morning I surprised the Bichons with an armful of baguettes for breakfast and Madam Bichon made us coffee. The weather had turned cooler so the Bichon family took me sightseeing to Monaco in the morning and to several of the fine museums of Nice in the afternoon. They treated me to a fine meal in Antibes near the Picasso museum and we returned to Nice later that evening. The family dropped me off at my hotel and I didn’t have a moment alone with Chantelle all day. I think she may have been more comfortable with that, as I could tell she was ruminating on what I had said in the elevator last night.

The next morning, after raiding the boulangerie, I had breakfast with the Bichons. Chantelle’s parents asked when I was flying back to the US. I impulsively said the following morning, even though I hadn’t yet purchased a ticket. Since the next day was Christmas Eve, I thought I should fly out of Nice to give Chantelle some time to be alone with her family.

Monsieur Bishon suggested that we take his Citron for the day and explore the surrounding area together, since we had not been alone together since I had arrived. I thought it was a splendid idea, and went back to my hotel room to grab my passport.

Chantelle and I impulsively took a leisurely drive across the border to Italy to visit Florence for the day. She smiled and held my hand tenderly in the car as I drove. I asked Chantelle if she knew whatever happened to Sara, Carolyn and Eloise.

“Did they get released from Potomac Fields?”

“I don’t think so, Sheremy. They were still in treatment when I left. I haven’t heard anything about their cases from Dr. Billingsley since my rotation ended.”

I nodded. It made me sad to think of the three troubled young women locked in the asylum, while I sped down the highway with the woman I loved, free.

In Florence, Chantelle and I got lost amongst the tiny cul-de-sacs running through the magnificent ancient city. Without the city map the Italian garage attendant gave us, we would’ve never found our way back to where we parked the car. Chantelle held my arm as we took pictures with our cell phones of each other in front of the intricately carved facades of the famous cathedrals. We drove to the original statue of Michelangelo’s David and were very fortunate to be able to see it up close that day. Chantelle asked a passing tourist if he would take a few pictures of us together in front of the famous sculpture with our cell phones. Just as the nice gentleman took a few pictures of us, I impulsively turned to Chantelle and gave her a long passionate kiss with my open mouth, wrapping my arms tightly around her, with one of my fists grasping a handful of her thick, long hair. The tourist took several pictures before clearing her throat, breaking us out of our spell. It was the happiest moment in my life. The memory of my soon to be ex-wife’s infidelity slipped away like grains of sand through my fingers.

It was well after midnight when we returned to Nice and Chantelle had fallen asleep in the car. I carried her up to her parent’s condo, laid her down into her bed, kissed her lightly on the cheek and left. I dropped off Monsieur Bishon’s car keys with a thank you note and some trinkets I purchased for them in Florence. I caught the first flight back to DC on standby out of Nice early the next morning.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chantelle

The last few months as a Resident at GU were extremely busy, covering the ward, working the consult team, covering the various clinics. I was glad to be busy, so I didn’t have as much time to think about Jeremy. He never called me once or even stalked me during the mandatory six month period since he ended my patient care, (excluding our little relapse in Nice). I really regretted bringing up all that business with the AMA ethics code, which at this point I considered to be still very correct, for every other physician in the world, except me.

The months crawled by and in mid-June I took my last two weeks of vacation time to pack up, give away my belongings and fly out to the west coast to start over again at UCLA for my fellowship year.

My orientation started on Monday July 1 and by Tuesday I had my password, keys, codes to all the entrances, campus ID, learned the computer system, took the various tests I needed to take to certify me with UCLA, and was thrown right into the addiction clinic in the afternoon. In the back of my mind I had expected to see my mental patient, incognito, lurking about, but he was nowhere to be found. I went home to my very small and very expensive apartment on the Wilshire Corridor in Westwood. The psychiatric clinic and addiction services buildings where I would be doing my fellowship were within walking distance of my apartment, which was nice. I had my white coats dry cleaned with heavy starch.

I worked my shift Wednesday and got off for July 4th on Thursday. Back at GU we worked 24/7, rain or shine, so having federal holidays off was going to be nice. My regular hours and extra time off will give me more time to prepare articles for publication in the academic journals of my field. It will be publish or perish if I have any chance at being hired after my Fellowship Year at UCLA.

As I left the clinic, an impossibly handsome man blocked my path, leaning against a shiny new Mercedes. He looked like a movie star in tight clothes and sunglasses and boots, his arms folded across his chest.

“Sheremy? Is that you?”

I almost didn’t recognize him. He held his back stiffer, which gave him a more confident bearing. It looked like he had been working out. His body appeared harder, more muscular. He had a deadly serious expression on his face.

“The six months are up. Hop in, Dr. Bichon.”

No kiss, no hug hello, no tenderness and conversation. He opened the door for me and we sped away in his purring two-seater. At the street on the corner of Wilshire and Westwood he pressed a button and the car’s metal top rose above my head and disappeared behind me, becoming a convertible. He raced west on Santa Monica Boulevard, cutting through the traffic, like we were being chased by the AMA. Of course, everyone seems to drive like that in LA.

After about twenty minutes we pulled into an underground parking area. I tried to open my door, but it appeared to be locked from the inside. He went around the car, gallantly opened it for me and helped me out. Jeremy escorted me silently into an elevator and up to the Penthouse floor of the modern building. The elevator doors opened into his apartment.

Apparently he owned the entire top floor. It looked like he had just moved in, as the huge room was bare, except for two gift boxes on top of a large oak table. The room was very dimly lit. All the blinds were closed, shutting out the sun. The only light coming in was from the sliding glass doors of the balcony. I walked across the living room and Jeremy slid open the balcony doors for me. I looked out and saw the sand, the Santa Monica Pier and the wide blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean below.

“What a gorgeous view,” I said.

“We can go down to the beach after we get… reacquainted,” he said.

I had the feeling my life was in for a drastic change. I’m not sure I was quite ready for it. Jeremy tried to make eye contact, but I was feeling a little nervous to be alone with him, this time on his turf.

I walked back across the living room and noticed three large professionally framed and matted photographs mounted onto the wall above the table. I walked over to get a closer look. I smiled as I studied them. They were a progression of close-ups of our kiss in front of the Michelangelo statute. Jeremy must’ve had them developed from the pictures taken of us in Florence. The first shows Jeremy turning toward me with a passionate look in his eyes. In the second our lips meet in a sensual kiss and in the third his mouth pressed forcefully onto my lips, his fist closing into the tufts of my hair.