SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter Three

"Bust!" Jack groaned, running a hand through his blond hair. "I never should’ve taught you this game."

Jack and Fabrizio had taught me how to play blackjack two hours ago; now, they were starting to regret it. Four other men had joined our table, and not one of them spoke proper English. I think they had learned their limited English by playing cards, because they had babbled enthusiastically when we said blackjack and they kept saying, "Hit me!" and "Bust!" They understood beer, too, but when I asked them where they learned English, they stared at me and muttered to one another.

"That’s it. I quit," Jack declared, standing up and taking a swig of beer. Then he turned to me, setting his beer heavily down on the table. "You wanna dance?"

"Sure," I replied, raising my voice as the band struck up a loud tune. He held out a hand and pulled me to the dance floor. I realized then that I didn’t know any dance steps. I had never danced like this before; just swayed or tapped my foot in time to music. "I don’t know the steps, Jack!"

"I’m leadin’, aren’t I?" he replied impishly.

"But you’re not dancing like all the others," I pointed out frantically, realizing we weren’t following the steps the young cads and their tipsy ladies were dancing. We were just…moving haphazardly, spinning and whirling and leaping and bounding. We were also attracting attention.

"So?" was Jack’s careless answer before he dipped me quite suddenly. I let out a little shriek at nearly falling and elicited laughs from our card-mates.

Before I knew it, a whole bunch of them had pulled girls from seemingly nowhere onto the dance floor and were joining us in a dance without steps. I laughed at the sight of the stricken-looking cads and the stunned ladies. As Jack whirled me past a pretty little blonde, she asked her beau in a whiny voice, "Why won’t you spin me like that?"

As the night progressed, I was passed from one man to another, allowing them to lead and laughing whenever we nearly rammed into another couple. About fifteen hands held my waist that night, held my sweaty hand with their own. I lost track of who I was dancing with, so caught up was I in the blend of noise and lights and a thousand sensations hitting me at once. I always knew when I was dancing with Jack, though. I always beamed at him and held onto his right arm and left hand a little tighter than the other men. I pressed a little closer and I felt weightless in his arms. My tired feet stopped aching when I danced with him.

When I woke up the next morning, I had my first ever hangover. And boy, did I hate it. I slept well into the morning. When I woke up, it was two o’clock in the afternoon. My bleary eyes glanced at the clock before fluttering shut. They widened, however, when the time actually registered with me.

"Oh, God!" I shrieked, sitting up straight in bed. This was a mistake. I felt as if sharp knives had thrust themselves into my head and I wasn’t dead yet. I cried out, which hurt, and clutched my head. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes and whimpered. When the shooting pains had gone away, I finally blinked and looked around. The room was empty. Stupid boys, being able to get over their hangovers; they had had lots more to drink than I had. I still had six hours left of my shift…I flopped back onto the bed and rolled away from the window. I couldn’t work like this. I just couldn’t.

When I woke up I didn’t know how much later, Jack was sitting on his bed. His arms were resting against his knees, his elbows hanging off of his thighs casually. He grinned as I slowly sat up in bed. "I didn’t think you were gonna wake up."

"How long have you been there?" I yawned, wincing.

"Ten minutes, give or take. You know, Ang, you should have gone to work a few hours ago."

"I know that!" I snapped feebly, unable to say much more. "What time is it now?"

"3:30."

I groaned. "Jack, can you please, please, please tell my boss, Mr. Becker, that I’m sick and I can’t come into work today?"

"I think he figured that out by now," Jack laughed.

"Please? Just tell him I’m sick and that’s why I didn’t come in."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Do you want me to get you something? Coffee?"

"Uh-huh." I nodded, sinking back into the comfortable cocoon of blankets. I drifted off a few minutes after the door had closed carefully behind him. I knew I was getting better, because I heard him open the door roughly thirty minutes later and I woke up fully. The coffee was nice; I think he got it from the restaurant Fabrizio worked at. "Jack, why aren’t you sick in your bed like I am? And Fabrizio, too?"

Jack smirked. "We can hold our liquor better than you, ‘specially Fabri. You ever tasted the Italian stuff? It tastes like vinegar."

"Ugh."

He was quiet for a minute. When he finally spoke, there was no playfulness in his voice. "Angie, me and Fabrizio have been talking, and, well…we think that maybe…it’s time for us to leave France."

I stared at him. "When did you talk about this?"

Jack fidgeted with his own cup of coffee. "Um…while you were asleep."

"But why?" I wasn’t getting it. At all. Jack had gone on and on about the beauty of Paris and its art and all that, and now…he wanted to leave.

"Well, Ang, think about it. You and Fabrizio are working all the time for crappy money. Last night was the first time in a long time that the three of us just lived. We came to France to enjoy the stuff here, not to be slaves," Jack said passionately.

And you know, he was right. Jack had gone on and on about how much fun Paris would be, and I hadn’t had any real fun until last night. And let me tell you, I had had a lot more fun in Italy. Those people knew how to live. And yeah, there were some Parisians who did, too, but I hadn’t met them yet. I took another sip from my coffee. "When do you want to leave?"

"Now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That’ll work nicely."

Jack chuckled. "As soon as you and Fabrizio can get away from work."

I set down my now-empty cup of coffee. "Okay. I’ll tell Mr. Becker tomorrow."

True enough, the next morning, I walked into work nervously, my stomach in knots and my hands fidgeting with my apron. Mr. Becker was a born-and-raised American who had a flair for business. His wife, Sophie, was a French citizen, and from what the maids who had been at the hotel longer than I had said, she had missed her mother frequently and they had made constant visits to Paris. So often, in fact, that he finally built a hotel here for other Americans so that Sophie would be closer to her mother. When I walked inside, Mr. Becker was talking with Jean at the front desk. He spotted me and made a stopping motion with his hand. He finished up his business with Jean and approached me, straightening his tie. "Ah, Angelica! I see you’re feeling better."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Becker," I replied cheerily.

"Your brother told me you were feeling very unwell…he said it was most unusual for you but that you would be out and about in no time," Mr. Becker said kindly.

I stifled a snigger; it was hard to imagine Jack as my brother. "Well, he was right. I’m feeling much better now."

"Good, good. I should hate for you to be out for a whole day in the future!" Mr. Becker chuckled.

I fidgeted with some lace on the cuff of my sleeve. "Um…about that, sir."

Becker’s smile faded a little. "Oh?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, sir, my…brother…and I were talking, and well…sir, we’re planning on leaving Paris soon."

Becker rubbed his chin. "I see. When are you planning on leaving, Angelica?"

I didn’t bother to point out that literally no one called me Angelica. "Um…as soon as possible. We have a friend who’s coming with us, and part of it’ll depend on him, too."

Mr. Becker nodded. "All right. How about this; you stay on for two more weeks, and then I’ll pay you the rest of the month’s salary."

"Thank you very much, sir," I said, meaning it.

He nodded, smiling. "I’ll hate to see you go, Angelica. You’ve been an excellent worker."

I decided not to point out that this was the first time we were having a conversation in which he was not instructing me how the guests were to be treated; therefore, I highly doubted he would truly be sorry to see me go. After all, even his wife, who oversaw the maids, called me Angie. Nevertheless, I smiled and headed to the lifts.

"You’re really leaving?" Yves asked, sounding somewhat disconcerted.

I nodded, looking down at my shoes. "Yes."

Silence.

"When?"

I sighed. "Two weeks."

Yves fell silent. "That’s—"

We came to the fifth floor, my destination, and a richly-attired woman carrying a small dog stepped in. I gave a small smile to Yves before slipping out and going down the hall. I heard the woman haughtily ordering Yves to take her down before I found Lucy and helped her clean a room.

When my two o’clock lunch break came, I braved the icy streets, caught a bus and went to Fabrizio’s restaurant. Like two nights before, the warmth of the room enveloped me at once. I was assaulted by a myriad of smells that made my mouth water. I sighed happily, content just to stand there for a few moments. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to. A seating host asked me something in French. I should probably point out that despite the fact that we had been in Paris for quite some time, I still couldn’t speak French. I worked with English-speakers all day long and I went home to Jack and Fabrizio at night.

"Um…sorry?" I asked apologetically.

A flicker of something sneer-like flickered in the host’s eyes; obviously he, like many other Parisians, intensely disliked Americans. But a pleasant smile graced his face a moment later and he asked cordially, "May I ‘elp you, mademoiselle?"

"Um…yes, I’m looking for my friend, Fabrizio di Rossi?"

"Oh, oui, ‘e ees een ze back wiz a friend." The host pointed to a corner where, sure enough, Jack and Fabrizio were leaning back in their chairs, a bottle of wine in front of them both. I thanked the host and made my way over to them. There was hardly anyone there; only a few ladies finishing up their desserts and most likely waiting for the bill to come.

"Holy cow, Angie, what are you doing here?" Jack asked in surprise as I flung my coat over the back of a chair at their table.

"What is a-this cow with holes?" Fabrizio asked.

"It’s an expression of surprise," I replied, flopping into the seat unceremoniously. "My boss is giving me two more weeks."

"My a-boss too!" Fabrizio declared, pouring me some wine.

"So…two weeks. Then where?" I asked no one in particular, taking a sip from my wine.

Jack shrugged as Fabrizio reached over and took a plate from the other table. He pushed it in front of me; it had some hardly-touched chicken and half of a bun. I dug in hungrily.

"Not France, that’s for sure. We could go to Belgium, Germany, or Switzerland. Or even back to Italy," Jack said, ticking off the countries on his fingers. "Oh, and there’s Spain."

"Spain sounds nice," I said through a mouthful of chicken. "It’s gotta be warmer."

"How ‘bout it, Fabri? You wanna go to Spain?" Jack asked, swigging his wine.

"Sì! I have a-never been!"

"Spain it is," Jack decided, stealing a glass of champagne from another nearby table. He winced. "Ugh; flat."

*****

The two weeks passed surprisingly slowly. I’m sure it was because I wanted to be out so badly. Looking back, I think that the only thing I truly liked about my life—if you could call it that—in Paris was Yves, and I could easily go on without him.

The night before we left, the three of us went to Les Augustine for the second and last time. I was back in the clothes I had worn coming into Paris, having turned in my uniform earlier that day. It felt strange but oddly nice to sit at a table, cradling a beer and not having to worry about getting up at six to go to work the next morning. Happiness overcame exhaustion and soon Jack and Fabrizio were teaching me the finer points of poker, which was considerably more difficult than blackjack.

I was just about to scream in frustration when a voice said something behind me. I didn’t understand him, but I knew it was Yves. I nearly slopped beer all over myself and the cards as I turned around. I beamed; the beer had made any anxiety I might have felt ebb away. "Yves! What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, smiling. "You said you were probably coming here tonight, so…I came to say a proper good-bye."

I felt Fabrizio snigger beside me. I say felt because we had been joined by five other men and we were rather packed. I stepped on his foot subtly while continuing to smile. "Fellas, can’t we make some more room?"

It was a miracle, but we made room for Yves, who didn’t know how to play poker at all. I had thought I was terrible, but Yves…well, he didn’t know a jack from an ace. The others were starting to get somewhat frustrated, so I asked Yves for a dance.

"I’m terrible," he said the minute his hand had found my waist and our free hands met.

"No, you’re not," I lied, pulling him into the rhythm that I danced to with Jack and Fabrizio and the other boys.

He laughed. "You’re lying. It’s all right. I don’t think I’ll have to play poker anymore. What is this dance, anyway? I’ve been letting you lead."

I giggled at this. "Honestly…I don’t know! You just…dance!"

"Um…all right," Yves said uncertainly, watching his feet awkwardly try to move.

"It’s fun!" I encouraged, turning us around in a circle.

"If you say so," Yves said half-heartedly.

A few minutes later, Fabrizio cut in, trying to show Yves how to do it. I’m not quite sure Yves really got the hang of it, but he assured me that he was having fun. I certainly was. The blackjack players from a couple weeks previous recognized us and joined us. I was asked to dance again, which I suspect is because of the scarcity of girls there, and while I tried to spend lots of time with Yves, I couldn’t help but be pulled into the flow of the music. It’s hard to explain, this addiction to a beat, but it made sense to me, and it still does.

Jack said that it’s people like us who feel this passion for music. He said that us travelers, the people who drift and wander all over the world without a destination…we feel this passion. That we’re as free and flowing as the music, that we love it so much because it speaks to our souls. He said that some people can’t feel the passion. They only know a beat because it’s been ingrained into their minds to dance or to enjoy good music that makes you want to fall asleep. These are the people that stay planted in one place, if they can. They don’t like to drift and wander and so the music doesn’t invoke the passion in them. It’s the kind of thing that should sound like horseshit, but somehow, it doesn’t.

As the evening began to wind down, I convinced Yves to dance a slow one with me. He looked much more at ease now than he had earlier. I fleetingly remembered what Jack had said about the passion for music and what it said about people. Yves was probably one of those people who wanted to stay in one place. It wasn’t a bad thing…was it? I had known planted down people in Santa Monica, and they weren’t all bad. I decided to stop thinking about stupid things like that and I instead turned my attention to Yves.

"I’ll miss having you around," he said after a few minutes of idle chatter.

I fought off a blush as I smiled. "I’ll miss you, too." Inwardly, I berated myself for sounding like such an idiot. I wanted him to remember me for being pretty and clever and witty; not for saying stupid things as if my head were full of fluff.

"Where will you go after this?"

It was strange; I had never mentioned to Yves where we were going. I suppose it had never come up. "We’re heading for Spain. It’s supposed to be warmer there."

Yves smiled. "Yes, I suppose it can get cold here. Sometimes I forget; I’ve never left France. I haven’t left Paris since I was fourteen."

"Didn’t you ever want to leave, though? To travel Europe? Or even the world?" I pressed.

Yves gave me a strange look. "Why?"

It astounded me that anyone could want to stay in one place their whole life. Surely it couldn’t have just been Jack’s influence on me? "But don’t you think it’s just a little, you know, boring to stay in one place your whole life? Why run the lifts for the rest of your life? Why not work as a sailor and see the world? You could come with us to Spain!"

I sincerely doubted that Jack and Fabrizio would be overly happy with a new addition, but I also knew that Yves wouldn’t come with us. I knew it in my gut and I wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. "I can’t leave. I…I don’t want to. Why couldn’t you simply stay here, Angie? Just because your friends are leaving doesn’t mean you have to."

Now it was my turn to shake my head. "Yves, Paris is a beautiful city and you’ve been wonderful to talk to and all…but…this place isn’t for me. I want to travel. I’m going to Spain, Yves! Really, why don’t you want to leave? You could go anywhere you wanted to without having to work for anyone! Make your own luck!"

Yves smiled sadly at my childish enthusiasm. "I can’t. I…I love it here. Mr. Becker is a good man. He doesn’t have any children, and who knows? Maybe someday I’ll run the hotel."

I looked down at my feet then, opting for silence. How could anyone’s ambition be to run a hotel? That was so, so boring. The whole world was out there and I fully intended on seeing it. I hoped this wouldn’t be my last trip to Paris. I hoped that someday I’d return, hopefully as Jack’s wife or, at the very least, his lover. We could visit the Eiffel Tower and holds hands in the Louvre or see the famed Bastilles…and then cold, hard realization hit me. I was flirting with a boy who I had been stringing along this whole time. I was still infatuated with Jack, and here I was, dancing to what should have been a romantic tune in another man’s arms.

"I…I think I want to go home now," I blurted. I felt awful. The liberal amount of beer I had consumed, not to mention the cigarettes I had braved--it was my first time smoking--weren’t helping my guilt much, either.

"Are you all right?" Yves asked, concerned.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "I’m fine. Just…I’m a little tired and, and whatnot. Long day ahead of me tomorrow, you know!"

Yves smiled sympathetically. "I’ll get your coat," he offered, making his way through the crowd to where only two men were playing cards. He helped me into a coat, ever the gentleman, and shrugged on his own. "I’ll escort you there."

He put a chivalrous hand on my back as the cold night air hit us. I shivered and ducked my head from the chilly wind. We caught a cab--I had never ridden in one before, and Yves insisted I should do it once--to the hotel. He paid the driver, waving away my protests, and walked me to my room. Suddenly, I felt sicker. It can’t explain it; I just felt an overwhelming amount of emotions that ultimately resulted in nausea.

"Well, this is it," I said rather stupidly as we halted in front of the door.

"Yes." Yves fidgeted his gloves for a moment. "I will miss you very much, Angie."

"And I’ll miss you, too, Yves." I had wanted to bolt for the door a moment ago; now, I felt a pang of sympathy for him. After the way I had treated him tonight, well, he really deserved a long farewell. And then he surprised me by leaning forward—out of the blue, I swear—and pressing his lips to mine. It was one of those things that I really should have seen coming, but of course, I didn’t. His lips were cold from outside and somewhat chapped. And just as suddenly as he had kissed me, he just as quickly pulled away and walked down the hallway rapidly. The minx in me would have stayed outside the door and smiled and waved shyly, because I’m pretty sure he paused on his way down the hall. However, there is little to no minx in me, so I threw open the door and closed it quickly.

I undressed and got into bed after that, eager just to sleep. Of course, I wasn’t able to go to sleep; it would have been a miracle if I could. Needless to say, I was awake when the boys stumbled through the door an hour later.

"Whoo! I’m a little—whoopsy!" Jack cackled as Fabrizio fell flat on his face. He tipsily helped him up, laughing so hard that he doubled over.

I propped myself up on my elbow and cocked an eyebrow. "Had fun, did you?"

"Yeah! W-where were you?" Jack asked, trying as hard as he could to steady himself. Bless him.

"I left awhile ago. I was tired." It was partly true.

"With Yves?" Fabrizio asked, laughing. He hiccupped after a moment and giggled. I should tell you that Fabrizio actually giggled. Shamelessly. He giggled like a little kid or even a girl sometimes, but I didn’t think the less of him for it. It was just…him.

I felt a smile tug at my lips. "Yes, with Yves."

"He looked outta place, poor fella," Jack noted, plopping down on the bed. He missed his mark and very nearly fell onto the floor.

I sat up fully. "Yeah, well, he was. Fabrizio, that’s a vase, not a glass."

Fabrizio giggled and threw himself onto the bed, lying back spread-eagled.

"Did you kiss him? Or did he kiss you?" Now Jack was giggling.

"He kissed me." This sobered the boys up.

"Really?" Jack asked, sounding intrigued, his head weaving drunkenly.

"Yes, really. I’ll tell you about it when you’re sober." I sighed, rolling over. Within five minutes, the lamp was shut off and Jack and Fabrizio’s snores filled the room.

Chapter Four
Stories