(This story was inspired by one of our trips to Paris!)

City of Light

Charlie’s phone rang as he closed his suitcase. His pulse quickened when he saw Claire’s name on the phone’s display.

“Hello, love,” he said.

“I’m not going to Paris,” she said.

“No, please,” he cried. “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, have you seen the forecast? Your flight will probably be cancelled. But, I’m sorry, Charlie, the real reason is I don’t want to go with you.”

“But it’s all planned. Everything’s in place.” She didn’t respond, so he offered to reschedule for another weekend.

“No. It’s over between us.”

“No!”

“Yes it is. This is the last you’ll hear from me.”

“But I bought a non-refundable ticket.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. Good-bye.”

He sat in his Chicago apartment and replayed the call in his head. Claire’s voice had sounded very controlled, as though her husband was standing next to her. Perhaps he’d found evidence, and she’d decided to make peace.

He checked the flight schedule on his computer. A snowstorm over Western Europe had delayed flights to Paris by hours. All signs pointed to failure, but in his own pig-headed way he forged ahead. Perhaps the City of Light would cheer him up.

He kept that thought in the front of his brain as he endured delay, six hours total, and frustration. Orly was a madhouse, full of dazed, stranded, and otherwise inconvenienced passengers. The roads into Paris were parking lots; all buses cancelled. The only transportation was the RER train, and no one could say when the next one would come. The platform was crowded with every nationality venting in native tongues. When a train did come, he floated like driftwood as the frenzied rush carried him into a carriage and off again at the Gare du Nord. It was packed with rush-hour commuters, and he inched his way through the throng to the Orange Route Metro platform. Two trains came and went before the surge pushed him into a car.

He climbed the stairs to emerge from the Oberkampf Metro Station; the steps and railing were covered with ice. With his suitcase in one hand and the other firmly gripping the railing, there was little he could do to aid the man in front of him as he lost his footing on the last stair. The back of the man’s surprisingly large head thudded against Charlie’s chest, preventing what would surely have been a trip to the hospital. Other commuters came the man’s aid, got him standing again, and the surge of commuters to the rear lifted both of them up and out of the way. The man apologized, and Charlie assured him that he was fine, even though his chest was throbbing. He couldn’t have told the truth, anyway, as neither spoke the other’s language.

The streets were like skating rinks; traffic barely moved. The sidewalks were equally bad, and pedestrians inched along or pushed past in annoyance.  Charlie gaped in amazement at an old woman on her knees using a hand trowel to chip away the ice in front of her shop. Still, it was open, and he bought packages of ham, cheese, chocolates, bread, and a big bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch.

The apartment he’d rented for the weekend was nearby. He cautiously made his way on the treacherous sidewalk, amazed that no one had a snow shovel tucked away in a closet. The apartment’s owner operated a realty office on the Boulevard Voltaire and seemed to hold Charlie personally responsible for the snowstorm.

“You’re late,” the owner barked when Charlie stated his business.

“Yeah, well, I’d say that’s your fault. Weather like this is commonly dealt with in Chicago. People own shovels and know how to use them.”

The owner shouted something in French and slapped the keys onto the counter. Charlie guessed from the tone and volume that he’d been cussed out.

“Same to you!” He gave the man an angry glare for emphasis, took the keys, and exited into the weather again.

The website described the apartment as a quaint love nest, and the pictures looked attractive. Claire had said it was a good location, so Charlie booked it. Once inside he couldn’t believe how little space there was. A galley kitchen along one wall of the “great” room, smaller than Charlie’s bedroom at home, had a toaster, coffee maker, and mini-refrigerator. He put away his purchases, poured his first scotch and explored. He’d noted the presence of scaffolding in front of the building and now saw that his view of Paris consisted of iron framework and plastic sheeting. The great room was filled up by a sagging sofa, huge coffee table, and TV stand. The bedroom was exactly three feet wider and one foot longer than the bed, but the firm mattress passed muster. He sat on the sofa, sipped his scotch, and placed this apartment near the top of his list of terrible accommodations that he’d endured over the years.

You’re in Paris for the first time, he told himself. Lighten up.

He figured out the instructions for the Wi-Fi and logged into his email. No message from Claire. He replayed her phone call in his mind again and decided that there had been sadness in her voice when she’d cancelled. She had her ticket. He sent her a mental message to please join him in their love nest. He posted his arrival in Paris on Facebook, trying to be amusing with details of the apartment but careful not to sound discouraging. He and Claire were Facebook friends; maybe she’d read the post and reconsider.

Overcome with the desire to wash away his travel woes he stripped and climbed into the shower. The stream was powerful, and the water was hot.

He was far into a reverie of happier times with Claire when noises intruded. Confusion was replaced by alarm as he realized that someone was in his apartment. What now? His vital documents and money were in his pants on the bathroom floor. He peeked around the shower curtain to confirm that the intruders hadn’t ventured into this inner sanctum. Had he locked the bathroom door? Was there a lock?

The noises indicated that the intruders were making themselves at home. Didn’t they hear the shower running or see his belongings strewn about? It was all very confusing. He was here first. Surely he had squatter’s rights? In a snow emergency did Parisians have leave to move into any space? The noises persisted. There was nothing to do but confront the intruders.

Charlie quickly toweled off and pulled on his pants and shirt. He couldn’t bear reusing the underwear. Going commando would suit the occasion. Best to start with moral outrage and throw the intruders out. Now that water wasn’t drumming against his head he could hear that the intruders were a heterosexual couple. He couldn’t place their native tongue but put it generally in Eastern Europe.

He wrenched the door open and strode purposefully into the great room. He was alone. The noises were coming from the neighboring apartment. Once he’d confirmed this he heard that his neighbors’ voices had softened and exchanges were punctuated with soft laughter. He knew from many years on the road in cheap hotel rooms what was going to follow. He thought of leaving but remembered the treacherous sidewalks. He turned on the TV, found an American news channel and poured another scotch. He noticed a rhythmic thumping, punctuated by groans and gasps. They were really going at it.

I should be making noises like that with Claire, he thought. What had caused her to reconsider? Some crisis at work on this Friday before the long holiday weekend? He remembered her controlled tone and decided that her husband must’ve thrown down the gauntlet. Was she communing with him on a tropical beach right now?

They’d met as work colleagues and began their affair while at a convention. When he shared the sales booth with her he was surprised at how much energy he had at the end of a long day of pretending to be friends with whatever stranger happened by. He was pretty good at closing deals, his sales figures backed this up, but Claire had a natural gift. Her good looks lured in passers-by, and her banter never lost sight of the goal. The numbers didn’t lie. The company sent them out on the road often. The sex made conventions a lot more fun.

He should’ve been more mindful of their nine-year age gap. Her ambition far outstripped his, too. When the chance came to jump to a competitor, she took it, moving with her husband to Boston. They still saw each other at conventions, and he certainly looked forward to the sex. Too much for his marriage to survive. Claire seemed to enjoy him, too, but then came the message that she was moving up the ladder. She’d be managing sales teams, not participating in them. He hadn’t seen her in three months.

He realized that the thumping was over. Satisfaction gained and now a long night’s rest for the lovers. Bully for them. He hoped their visit to Paris would be a short one. Perhaps it was over now. He wouldn’t put it past the querulous owner to rent rooms by the hour.

His disappointment at Claire’s absence washed over him. Since separating from his wife he’d gone on a personal improvement campaign. He was working out, on a diet and had lost fifteen pounds. There was a full length mirror on the wall. He took off his pants and shirt and admired the results. He had imagined Claire’s excitement at seeing the new, sleeker Charlie. He was sure there’d also be an improvement in his lovemaking. These thoughts aroused him, and he played with the result. He heard a woman’s throaty laugh, as seductive as if it came with a soft breath over his shoulder. He spun around, hopeful. Nothing.

The unsettling thought that the mirror was actually a two-way window sent him over to the wall, but he could see that the mirror was just that, cheaply manufactured and hanging from a nail hammered into the wall.

His neighbors were at it again. Soft voices, shifting of bodies, laughter.

“Hell’s bells.”

The noises stopped, followed by an utterance and laughter. It was then that Charlie realized he’d spoken. Or shouted? He wasn’t sure.

Charlie went into the bedroom and fumed as he dressed. He’d planned to stay out of the weather and sup on his cold cuts and bread, but the neighbors made this impossible.

The closest eatery was a pizza restaurant. The sidewalks were more treacherous than they had been. He pondered venturing further in search of more appetizing fare when a young man dashed past, slipped and landed on his back. Charlie took this as a sign and entered the pizzeria. He was the only customer. He was sure that the pimply-faced Asian teenager who took his order also prepared the pizza. Charlie lingered over it and consumed three beers. He’d had hundreds of better pizzas in Chicago.

He could hear from his building’s stairway that they were at it again. The thumping was louder in the apartment. However, fatigue had overtaken him. He was sure that he’d be able to fall asleep and went to bed.

 

A woman shrieked. Charlie awoke. Had he been dreaming of Claire? She was a passionate lover, vocal, though more given to grunts and moans than shrieks. Another sharp noise. Was a woman in trouble somewhere? He lay in bed getting his bearings. Small bedroom, loud neighbors. He could hear them shifting in their bed, laughing.

He arose, showered a long time, and decided he wanted to get a look at the amorous pair. They must be young to be at it as often as they were. Well-conditioned. Marathon runners, perhaps. A good look would help to flesh out the sounds. He’d hear them getting ready to go out. He’d rush ahead and position himself so that they would have to walk past him. He’d know who they were, and they’d still be in the dark about him. Mission accomplished. Upper hand.

An hour later all was still quiet. His belly groaned. He toasted two slices of bread and made a sandwich and a pot of coffee. He checked his email. No message from Claire. No one had commented on his post about being in Paris. Envy? Or ennui? He looked out the window, trying to see through the plastic sheeting. There were few street sounds. Was this normal for eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning?

Claire had studied in Paris for a year-abroad. She was going to show him the sights, the favorite haunts of her youth. He’d left the sightseeing details to her. That she would be able to introduce him to the City of Light was what had made the getaway so attractive to both of them.

He should do something. What? He looked through the messages she’d sent in anticipation of the journey. She’d been so enthusiastic. What had happened?

He saw that she’d weeks ago made a reservation for dinner that night. The restaurant’s write-up described a unique dining experience. Claire had gushed in excitement at having been able to secure the reservation. He decided that he’d keep it and emailed to confirm.

It was now after noon. Suddenly disgusted with his plan, he put on his parka and left. The sidewalks were still treacherous, but the streets had been treated. The sun was out; melting was under way. He walked the half block from the apartment to the Boulevard Voltaire.

As he approached the corner he suddenly felt drawn to the right. He looked up the street as a woman turned to enter a shop half a block away. She was Claire’s height, and the hair color, a rich brown, was right. Claire had mentioned she was letting her hair grow out, and the woman entering the shop had a wave of very thick hair, like Claire’s, tumbling down past her shoulders.

He felt in his gut that it was Claire, and a warm sensation spread through him. She had decided to join him after all! With a teenaged bounce in his step he went looking for her. Which shop? Not the patisserie he came to first, nor the closed shoe store next door. Perhaps the woman had entered the next building’s lobby, headed for her apartment. This thought hit him like a bucketful of cold water. At that moment the woman stepped onto the sidewalk in front of him. She was cupping a coffee in her un-gloved hands, her head was bent over, and her hair obscured her face. Charlie brightened once again. It had to be.

“Claire!”

The woman walked past, head down.

“Excuse me!”

The woman stopped, turned and looked at Charlie. She had stunningly beautiful brown eyes that looked into the depths of his loveless soul. She was young, twenty he guessed, had a flawless olive complexion, wore no make-up, and her face was beautifully framed by her hair.

“Oui?” One word, full of sexuality. She seemed to have read this thought, and her eyes veiled, assessing him for danger.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.” She knitted her eyebrows. “Pardona may,” he added, hoping for a French accent. He bowed his head to indicate he meant no offense.

The woman flashed a flawless smile, turned, and resumed walking. She was inappropriately dressed in a light jacket and high-heeled boots. Her shapely derriere, a French word he knew, clad in skin-tight pants captivated him. He followed. He had no idea how far he walked. She kept a brisk pace for the difficult conditions, and the distance between them lengthened.

She entered a building that turned out to be a cinema. He walked on as though he had someplace to go and discovered that he was at the Place de la Bastille. The footing was trickier now that he was paying more attention to it. His feet were wet. A Metro entrance was in front of him. He entered and considered options. He took the Yellow Route to the Franklyn Roosevelt Station and walked down the Champs Elysees. It was mid-afternoon, the sun was blinding against winter’s coating, but the footing was much better.

The buildings were impressive. He wished that Claire was identifying then for him, that he was sharing observations with her about their features, or that some magic had happened and the young, chestnut-haired beauty was introducing him to Paris.

He was tired of walking, and his socks were soaked. Very inappropriate shoes. He turned up a street away from the Louvre, and an Irish pub appeared. It was overheated inside. The Guinness tasted very good. He took a seat in a snug corner and removed his shoes. Claire would like this place. It had an authentic Irish air about it. A waiter appeared, took no exception to the sight of feet resting on a chair, and lingered to practice his English. Algerian, Charlie guessed. He enquired about the location of tonight’s restaurant and learned that it was only a few blocks away. Charlie ordered chips with extra ketchup and another Guinness.

He took out his cell phone and checked for messages. Nothing from Claire, but there was a confusing one from the restaurant saying that the reservation had already been confirmed.

In a pub much like this one near the Milwaukee convention center he’d kissed Claire for the first time. He’d done it on impulse and expected a rebuff, but she slipped her tongue into his mouth. He suggested that they settle up quickly and head back to the hotel, but she wanted to soak up energy from the crowd. They had another drink and necked. He assumed that this was as far as it would go. She was out of his league in the looks department, but they wound up in bed together.

He wished there were more people in this bar providing more energy. He ate his fries, drank his stout and thought of happier times. They’d had nine months as co-workers, though they never slept together in Chicago, always on the road. Then six months of seeing and sleeping with each other every couple of weeks in cities across North America. She’d seemed to be as satisfied with the affair as he was. He never got the sense that she was sizing up other potential partners on the road.

His feet were warmed, and his socks felt dry. He put on his shoes and went to the bar to order another pint. There were other customers there, and he let his salesman’s persona take over. He purchased a round. One was purchased for him. The pub was becoming lively.

He saw it was time to go to the restaurant. A good thing, as he was feeling tipsy. A good meal was required. He got directions and made his way. Paris wasn’t such a bad city after all.

He was standing in line to speak to the maître de when he saw the owner of his company sitting in the restaurant. His dining companion had chestnut hair flowing down her back. Charlie gaped in amazement, then dismissed the thought. Impossible. The owner’s wife was blonde and wore her hair in a sporty bob, barely past her ears. The man merely looked like the boss. He was across the room, making recognition difficult.

When the maître de asked, Charlie gave Claire’s name.

“Those diners are seated.”

“No, no. You’re mistaken.” It came out more slurred that he’d have liked.

“There is no mistake.”

“I say there is.”

He eyed Charlie, sizing him up.

“Can I speak to Claire then, please?”

“Out of the question.” The maître de shifted his gaze to the people behind Charlie.

“Just a second here.” This was nearly shouted. He saw that the man across the room was looking at him, and the woman turned in her seat. It was Claire. She turned back around before showing any expression. His boss leaned closer to catch what she said and laughed.

“Monsieur, you must leave at once.”

Utterly defeated, Charlie did as instructed. Mercifully, there was a taxi parked outside. When it pulled up outside his apartment building Charlie saw a middle-aged, mutually-overweight couple approaching. They were holding onto each other tightly, and he seemed to be pointing out slippery patches on the sidewalk. Charlie paid the fare and exited the cab. The couple walked under the scaffolding and went into his building. Charlie followed them up the stairs. They entered the apartment next to his. He continued up the stairs to the landing above, then realized that he was fooling no one. He descended to his door, opened, closed and locked it, removed his coat, dropped it on the floor, and walked to the kitchen. Before he could pour a drink they were at it again.