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Dying In Paris
Copyright 2012 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for B.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I was thinking about angels: those entities
that appear when you need them.
I was also thinking about Paris.
I did not think I could write this well;
it’s more literary than my other stuff.
But I decided to finish it and post it.
ABOUT DRAFT NUMBER TWO
Nothing yet.
When I woke up, I remained flat for a moment, listening to Peter in his room and the sounds outside, and studying the quality of the light.
I was thinking about going to La Defénse, but wondered if I’d have the energy to do so.
When I sat up, and then stood up, without feeling faint or tired, I decided to go.
* * * * *
Thirty minutes later I entered the hallway, feeling slightly drowsy, but otherwise all right.
I felt very clean from my shower; and presentable in pressed dark jeans, a pink sweater and a light tan jacket; and even more cheerful than usual, so when Peter looked up from his computer I said happily, “I’m going to La Defénse today.” I checked my reflection in a decorative mirror; my hair was straight and fairly shiny -- long dark brown and gray strands to my shoulders; my complexion was a pale peach yet fairly healthy; faint dark circles underscored my eyes.
“Yes? You are well enough to go, Charlotte?” He adjusted his glasses and moved long brown bangs out of his eyes.
“Yes, I think so. I’ll take the metro and go slowly.”
He frowned. “Perhaps we could arrange for someone to go one or both ways with you?”
I stood still, breathing, assessing my stamina. “No. I should be OK. I’ll call if I don’t feel well.”
He folded his hands, his habit when he strongly disagreed with me.
I said, “Don’t forget I’ve been doing well this week. I should have been tired yesterday from the visit to the Louvre the day before.”
“And I fell asleep before you did last night. Very well. Please be careful.”
“I will. I have you on speed dial.”
He sighed and returned to his work.
I went downstairs, down three floors on the circular stairway, enjoying the views from each landing’s window: glimpses of the west end of Champs Elysées near the Arc De Triomphe.
Outside, I stood still for a moment, assessing the sidewalk for dog poop, and devising a way around the few messes I found, then started walking to the metro stop.
Once I started, I felt more energized. At the stop, I went downstairs, and held back laughter when several men and one woman pushed ahead of me. The woman turned and said, “You might apologize for being in the way.” I replied, “You might apologize for being in too much of a hurry.” I received only silence in return.
As I waited for the metro, she stood nearby, and then huffed when we entered the same car and she could not find a seat away from me. She sat still to my left, staring straight ahead, while I sat lost in thought, hoping I’d enjoy myself.
So far, I felt fine. But I was dying. My doctor said I should expect to feel less energetic in a few more weeks, and that I had about four to six more months to live. When I had first received this news, I had asked friends and colleagues if they knew anyone I could stay with in Paris, as I did not want to leave; and had posted a polite request on my websites. While discussing several options with a variety of people, I heard from Peter. He said he was a fan of my work, and would be willing to let me live with him if I would write one story a week for his entertainment until I was physically unable to do so, and that he was interested in managing my estate, should I not yet have anyone assigned to that task.
I laughed after reading his e-mail. My “work” consisted of three published short stories, very old nonfiction articles, several unpublished novels, and five articles a month for an online website devoted to medieval history. “What work are you referring to?” I wrote back. His response: “The items on your website, and what you write for the history website.” I liked the idea of working in exchange for a place to stay; but had nothing that could be considered as important as an estate.
We met and talked for several hours. He was reserved but kind, well-mannered and knowledgeable about a lot of things, including publishing, literary estates and the law. He was the owner of several patisseries, and had a close friend who was an attorney who would be willing to help us with my “estate” should I be interested in hiring Peter as an executor.
After background checks on both sides, and more discussions, I accepted Peter’s help, terms and conditions, and moved into his flat on Champs Elysées. We quickly moved from acquaintanceship to friendship, and had been enjoying our arrangement for the past three months.
My phone released a short melody, interrupting my thoughts. It was a text message from Peter: “You are well?” I sent back, “Yes, very well. We just stopped at La Defénse. Will let you know when I reach La Grande Arche.”
In the sunshine again, I took a sip of water, then aimed for the Arche -- the huge, white, square-shaped building near the modern business district on the west side of Paris.
As I walked I had a fleeting feeling of bittersweet sadness. If I were in excellent health, and feeling like I were at one hundred percent, I would have loved to study architecture, and might have designed unusual buildings like the Grande Arche. On a day like today, I would have studied the building, and taken notes, and measured the distance from it to a potential spot where I could have my own building constructed--
“Bonjour ... madame? ... mademoiselle?” A pleasant tenor said to my right.
A medium-sized gentleman, who looked like a tall Toulouse-Lautrec, smiled pleasantly at me. He wore a dark gray suit, wire-rimmed glasses that framed dark brown eyes, and had short black hair.
“Mademoiselle,” I said.
“You would like some assistance to La Grande Arche? And perhaps back to the metro station when you are finished with your lunch?” He gestured toward my bottled water and small paper bag.
“Um ....” I felt awkward and silly for having to think about it. I said, “Yes, please.”
He held out his left elbow and I held on.
“Such a beautiful day,” he said.
I hesitated; I still felt a bit melancholy. “Yes. It is.” The sun was bright; the sky clear.
“Even in the late autumn of our lives, we may still appreciate the moments we have, no?”
Again I hesitated, then said nothing. I almost asked if he knew indeed that I was in the late autumn of my life, but perhaps he sensed something from the paleness of my face or my demeanor.
“This building,” he said. “You know that Notre Dame would fit inside it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does not seem possible, but I have heard that.”
We were getting closer; the square loomed above us, up a long set of wide stairs.
“You would like to sit in the shade?” He said. “Or in the sun?”
“In the sun,” I said. “Right here would be fine.”
He looked at his watch. “I will return in approximately ... twenty, twenty-five minutes. Should you need assistance, call this number.” He handed me a business card.
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“You are welcome. I hope your lunch is pleasant.”
I sat and just looked around for a while. Other people -- tourists, businessmen and women, students -- were also eating lunch here, on the steps, looking around. A very light breeze caressed my face. I thought about architecture again, and designing buildings, and people living and working in them. Maybe in a different life.
Also in a different life -- romance, which I briefly considered while watching a couple nearby. They kissed between eating bites of food. I thought about Shane, an ex-boyfriend, and wished he were here. We had gotten back in touch recently, and had agreed to send an e-mail now and then.
As I finished my lunch of cheese, bread, fruit and cold meat, a large bird flew around me and landed a few steps down. It had blue-green feathers on its head and on its wings.
For no reason I could fathom, I pulled out the man’s business card. I hadn’t looked at it; I had put it in my sweater pocket.
The card had two items: a tiny blue-green bird and a phone number.
I looked at the bird, then at the card. Then checked the time. About twenty minutes had passed.
As I stood up and looked around, with the feeling that the man would not be returning, the bird flew around me again, landed on the stairs below, and hopped down, step by step.
I laughed, then followed.
We went to the metro station; sometimes I was ahead, sometimes the bird. As I held my lunch bag over a trash can, the bird screeched.
“Oh,” I said. “Bread. Sorry.” I opened the paper bag, pulled out some leftover bread, crumbled it, and scattered it on the ground.
The bird pecked at the crumbs. I waited until it was finished, then slowly moved toward the stairs.
The bird peeped softly and started grooming itself.
“Thank you,” I said, and went downstairs.
* * * * *
Before going home, I bought more bread and some ingredients for beef stew. I had enough energy to make dinner, and the dish was one of Peter’s favorites.
Inside, I found a note, which was identical to a text he had sent me during my return trip: “I am at an appointment. I will return around five o’clock. Please call or text if you need anything.”
I started the stew, did some light housekeeping, then went to my room. I felt slightly drowsy, but otherwise OK, so after my daily Bible reading and some paperwork, decided to start my next article for the medieval website.
As I studied the finer details of the bubonic plague, a breeze stirred the curtains of my open window and shifted a few papers on my desk. The business card moved slightly and I thought about the man who had assisted me. If I called the number, would someone answer?
I dialed and listened. After two rings, I recognized the man’s voice as he said, “Thank you for calling Gilles Aviary. Please leave a message and we will return your call within one business day.”
I almost hung up, but said, “Uh ... hello. I am looking for a gentleman ... he is about five-eight or so; with dark hair and glasses. He assisted me today near La Defénse, and gave me this phone number. I would like to thank him for his kindness.”
As I left my name and phone number, I heard the front door open and voices in the front room. Peter was home; perhaps with a guest. I continued studying. I was pleased when I heard his voice behind me; catching up at the end of each day was always nice.
“You are well, Charlotte?”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed your visit to La Defénse?”
No hesitation this time. “Yes. It was actually ... well ... delightful.”
I told him about the man and the bird. He listened with a little smile. After some thought he said, “Perhaps you will hear from him again. Maybe enjoy meeting with him for coffee or another walk?”
That feeling of bittersweet sadness returned. “I don’t know. What do I have to offer? Some days are not so good, and I’d rather not be gloomy on a date. Plus, there’s that whole dying thing.”
Peter studied me, then smiled.
I laughed. “Well, it’s true.”
He said, “Perhaps he would not mind.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” I sighed. “If I were to have coffee or take a walk, I wish it could be with Shane. I enjoyed getting back in touch with him a few weeks ago.”
I thought about Shane -- a part of life that I rarely considered anymore: romance, dating, marriage. Those were luxuries and pleasures for healthy people. We had dated ten years ago, in our late thirties, during several very happy months, until he fell in love with another woman. He had been kind and pleasant through the breakup, and the definition of a gentleman. He had stayed in touch, but I found it difficult to be friends, so had gradually pulled away until a few weeks ago, when I had contacted him. He was still kind and a gentleman. I had said nothing about dying.
I looked up, realizing I had been lost in thought, but Peter was gone. He had said something about the scent of the stew, but I hadn’t answered while reminiscing about Shane.
The breeze picked up again, a bit more forceful this time, so I stood up and closed the window. Outside, a well-dressed couple walked east on Champs Elysees. I felt jealous. I wanted to be healthy and go out in the evening, with a friend or a boyfriend.
“Stop,” I muttered. “You did that. As the Bible says, there is a time for every purpose under heaven. It’s time to be sick.”
The bubonic plague research beckoned. It was holding my interest. I hoped to research some more, write an outline, check on the stew, help Peter with some chores, then eat.
Still standing, I picked up a magazine and flipped through an article on medicine in the middle ages. As I skimmed, a voice behind me said, “Charlotte.”
I frowned. It did not sound like Peter.
I turned around.
Shane stood just inside the room; Peter stood behind him in the doorway.
“Shane,” I said.
His face softened; his big blue eyes looked me over; the breeze sifted through his short, dark brown hair. He was still slim, yet muscular; and towered over me and Peter at six-three.
I said to Peter, “You found his number on the phone bill.” He was paying for everything except my food and medical bills.
Peter nodded.
Shane said, “How are you feeling?”
I swayed, feeling overwhelmed. Shane moved quickly, held me, then picked me up and sat on my chair.
I started crying. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t see me like this.”
“Shh. It’s okay. This is a part of life.”
“Peter. Why?”
“We chatted. I am sorry. I told him everything. He was concerned, and wanted to see you.”
Shane pulled me close, and for a long time I clung to him, at first silently crying, then shaking.
“Are you all right?” He said. “Do you need some medicine?”
“No. I’m just nervous.”
Gradually, I calmed down, as Shane stroked my arms and back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You came all this way. For what.”
He hugged me tight again. “To see you. To help if I can. I actually ....”
“What.”
“Before we chatted a few weeks ago, I had been looking for you for a few years. Just to say hi, see how you were doing. I was glad to hear from you.”
“Yeah?” I sounded ungrateful and weary, even to myself. I wanted to be healthy, and vibrant, and have a normal lifespan, and not sitting on his lap. I wanted to be the way I was when we were younger: more attractive and cheeky and alive.
“You look good,” he said.
I pulled away a bit and studied his face; he looked serious. I hadn’t changed much, except that I was ten years older and about fifteen pounds lighter, but not yet too thin.
“Thanks,” I said, as I quickly scanned him. “And you, as always, are in excellent shape.”
He looked down. “Could lose a few pounds.”
“I disagree.”
I moved to get up, but he said, “Stay. Please.” Then his face turned red and his eyes filled with tears.
“Hey,” I said, poking him and trying to smile in a teasing way. “You fell in love with someone else. Why so upset?”
He frowned, shook his head, ran his hands over me as if appraising me. “I’m not in love with her anymore. I loved you as a friend. Still do. And I care. Who wants their loved ones to die? Or suffer?”
I sat still, said nothing. I had missed his touch.
“How long?” He said.
“Four to six months.”
“Your family?”
“Some will be here in a few weeks. A few will stay in the U.S. until ... well.”
“Mm.”
He looked up; Peter was back, with two cups. “Tea for Shane,” he said. “Water for the lady.” He patted me and went into the hallway.
Shane said, “I’ll be here. Peter helped me pull some strings with finding a job and a place to stay.”
“Why. You must have obligations back in the States.”
“I’ll be okay.” He turned red again, shrugged. “I want to be here.”
I felt my face get hot, and perhaps red. Ten years ago, we had been very happy for a while. To be happy again, for just a few months, even just as friends ....
I finally touched him, stroking his hair, his shoulder, his chest. “Let’s form a big support group. Be here for each other. We all have things we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, everyone does.”
My phone rang. Shane looked around, found it and handed it to me.
The display area flashed the number to Gilles Aviary.
I answered, “This is Charlotte.”
“Mademoiselle Charlotte. Gilles DuBois at your service. I am sorry I did not return today, but I trust you had assistance back to the Metro?”
“Yes, I did. A bird, actually. Very helpful.”
“A bird, you say? Interesting. And how are you feeling this evening?”
“I’m well. Energized from the day. And you?”
“I am well, thank you. I am busy with the care of a few family members, as well as my aviary. At the moment, I am on my way to several shops for food for dinner.”
Shane whispered, “Is that the bird guy?”
I nodded.
He reached for the phone.
I said, “A friend of mine would like to say hello, Gilles.”
“Very well.”
Shane said, “Hello? ... Yes ... Thank you for helping my friend today ... My name is Shane. I’m an American friend of Charlotte ... Yes, very nice, very pleasant ... Yes, sir ... Yes, I know ... What’s that? ... Food for dinner? ... Why don’t you stop by and have dinner with us? We’re having stew and bread and salad ... Please ... It would be a pleasure ... Please.” He gave Gilles the address and ended the call.
We were quiet for a while.
Shane ended the silence with a low voice, “Help often comes in unexpected and mysterious ways.”
“I know.”
“How’s your appetite?”
“It’s fair. Changes from day to day.”
“Looking forward to stew?”
“Yes.”
“What about wine?”
“Not any more.”
“Me either. Some weird rare allergy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I think I lost half my friends when I found out.”
“No way.”
“Maybe a fourth.”
A knock at the front door silenced us. I heard Gilles speaking: “Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“Bienvenue, Monsieur.”
“We should go,” I said. I stood, and Shane followed me to the front room.
Gilles and Peter were chatting softly; Gilles turned and smiled. After introductions, we sat in the living room and ate dinner.
The breeze returned, joining us after its journey through the open living room windows, which also let in the last of the sunlight as evening turned into night. I thought it looked a bit sad. But then I remembered what Gilles had said earlier in the day: “Even in the late autumn of our lives, we may still appreciate the moments we have, no?”
Yes, the day was ending. Yet I could appreciate that meant time for rest; and time for rejuvenating. There should be no cause for worrying overnight; Peter and Shane would be here, and maybe even Gilles because there were two spare rooms.
Yes, the day was ending, and it was nighttime. Most likely the morning would come. And if it did not, I knew the comfort and concern of my friends, and hoped to carry the memory of them with me.
* ~* END *~*
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