Parisian Promises (9 page)

What Monica needed now was the intensity of a torrid love affair with this particular man of her dreams, the man who now rubbed her and ignited the fire inside her. She was in Paris, even if the last few days weren't quite the Paris of her dreams; she was lying next to a sensuous and intriguing man, and she knew she had to turn whatever was evolving between them into the love of her life––both of their lives. She would settle for no less, and she silently promised herself to give her all to this goal.

She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “When you stayed away, it worried me so much. But I knew you'd come back to my arms.”

“That's all I thought about,” he lied.

Monica wanted to direct him back to their lovemaking of three days ago, but she played her cards cautiously. “You know, I've been waiting to hear the rest of your most romantic love story about Isabel and the Amazon.” She massaged his back, and he moaned in fake pain as if he had run all the way back from the Loire. “If you're not too fatigued from your long drive, I'd love to hear it.”

Jean-Michel approved of this new, even more submissive Monica. The tactics he'd learned about forcing a female target into an environment of isolation and mind-clouding techniques appeared to have paid off. His persistent knocks on the door and enigmatic whistles had accomplished their objective: to confuse and undermine Monica's logical train of thought the last two nights. It was his own version of a Pavlovian experiment: knock softly, yet persistently, to get her attention, and whistle the mystical three notes to confuse her. This one-two punch had forced Monica to get up throughout the night, make her way to the door, and turn the locked door handle––over and over and over again.

From the peepholes Jean-Michel had installed on the common walls of the empty apartment next door, he had observed her gradual decline––hour by hour––and he'd cherished it. He'd sat in the neighboring apartment and sketched Monica's eventual decline until she looked like a naked ghost floating from the bat-filled bedroom to the sterile library, trying to turn lights on and attempting to cover herself in anything to combat the cold. He'd seen her sobbing quietly, staying away from the windows because she clearly didn't want to let anyone on the outside know how much she was suffering inside the apartment. This particular reaction indicated to him that Monica must feel guilty and somehow responsible for her miserable situation––and this was precisely the outcome Jean-Michel wanted.

He had deprived her of sleep, food, clean water, light, clothing, and warmth––and not once did he have to get his hands dirty like the other fool squads. He'd sat next door in the empty apartment that belonged to his now-deceased great-uncles, and he drank their exquisite wine, ate delicious bread and cheese, and sketched to his heart's content. Had his two eccentric and absent-minded great-uncles still been alive, they may not have even noticed that a young woman was being held captive in the adjacent apartment they used as a warehouse for their odd collections of taxidermy and unwanted art.

Jean-Michel had heard that some less sophisticated squad leaders physically and sexually abused their female targets before they offered them the pity and kindness that elicited their captives' fidelity, but in Jean-Michel's estimation, such brute force was tantamount to admitting that the squad leader's mind was not strong enough to “mind control” the female targets. He would have to present this modified version of traumatic bonding at a future meeting of his
compañeros.

As Monica massaged his legs and rubbed her flimsy body against his in a feeble attempt to seduce him, Jean-Michel decided to name his new style of assault on a target's identity as the “California Girl.” It was a catchy title that implied that even smart-ass, independent, American chicks could be broken down with the surgical scalpel wielded by a master manipulator such as him.

Jean-Michel had previously made the rounds of several clandestine insurgent groups embedded in Paris. He admired the revolutionary zeal of some of the group leaders, but he determined that he did not have the same driving force. He had not experienced injustice, discrimination, poverty, or political submission. In effect, he had never suffered a day in his life; he'd gone from a silver spoon to a generous trust fund––and now he resented his family for feathering his bed too luxuriously. He was attracted to the idea of creating such a suffering persona, but he did not convince anyone of his underdog status––and this made him rabid with indignation. While at a nightclub in Paris he ran into friends from the same Swiss boarding school. Soon the alcohol surging through their veins turned them hot-blooded, and they started talking about Che Guevara and continuing the revolution, their drunken talk igniting their bravado. Soon thereafter Jean-Michel started calling them
compañeros
and alluding to their formation of a special squad of insurgents, soon to be called to action. In the meantime, they drank the finest Bordeaux and lounged at various cafes and bars, seducing women and periodically pamphleteering or taking unknown packages from one building in Paris to another. The formation of their supposed insurgent group gave the
compañeros
a structure to their days and a sense of purpose to their disaffected rich-boy life, and it satisfied Jean-Michel's need to be perceived as a leader.

Jean-Michel kept moaning in fake pain while a still-shivering Monica massaged him. He noticed her chewed nails and trembling body, and decided to switch tactics––to keep the ball rolling, as Americans liked to say.

“You're a sweetheart,” he said, wrapping her in the blanket. “I feel better already. Shall we have a bite to eat?”

Monica wanted to wolf down the croissants and slices of ham and cheese he'd brought, but before she could put a bite in her mouth, Jean-Michel said, “Surely you're not going to eat the whole thing, are you? I love your litheness.”

He pinched her frozen nipples, and Monica tried not to grimace. She shook her head.

“No, not at all. This plate is for you.” She handed him the full plate. “I'll just have a couple of bites from what's left.”

“Yes, that's a good idea. Your thighs are much too plump for a woman your size,” Jean-Michel said as he ate everything on his plate, and most of what remained in the other shopping bags.

Every detail of Monica's appearance revealed a woman who had relinquished control of her own life. From her sunken eyes to the chewed fingernails and disheveled hair, she exuded defeat. In a fragile voice, she asked, “Won't you please tell me why you cherish the story of Isabel and the Amazon?”

“Sure, why not. But it really is chilly in here, isn't it?” Jean-Michel wrapped himself in the cashmere blanket and Monica squeezed her body between his and the chesterfield to warm up. “It's a very long and fantastic story, but I'll only tell you the highlights.” He yawned. “I'm so tired from trying to protect all my friends.”

He yanked the blanket closer to him, so Monica's back was completely exposed.

“Isabel was the most faithful wife,” he told her. “She married Jean Godin des Odonais, who was part of the 1735 French expedition led by the well-known naturalist Charles-Marie de La Condamine. Isabel listened to every word her husband told her, and when he decided to go on another expedition to French Guiana, she stayed in her hometown of Riobamba…I think she loved her horses like you do.”

Jean-Michel put his arm around Monica, but when she wrapped her body around his, he pushed her away.

“I can see that you're not really interested,” he said, sounding hurt. “Shall I stop?”

“No, no, I love the story. It's just that I'm really cold. Do you know where my clothes are?”

“So now you're threatening me? Just say so and the door is wide open.” Jean-Michel stood up and stalked to the door.

Monica didn't budge. A tiny whimper escaped her mouth.

“Well, make up your mind, please. Either you leave now or you stay and listen to the story and then we can make love all night. Which is it?”

“I, I'd love to stay––please.”

“But of course. Let me pour you a nice Cognac. It will warm you up.” He rummaged through one of the bags and pulled out the bottle.

“This is delicious, thank you,” said Monica, grateful for a swig and not daring to ask for a glass. “Won't you please continue with Isabel's tale?”

“As I was saying, before you interrupted me, Jean Godin could not return to Riobamba in the Ecuadorian highlands due to a series of snafus, but in a letter to Isabel he commanded her to take a boat and cross the entire Amazon River to meet him. Did Isabel complain about it being too cold or too hot or too many insects or the fact that she'd already buried her child?
No, she did not
.” He slapped the cocktail table.

“She certainly did as she was told,” whispered Monica.

“That she did. Did you know that her boat capsized and just about everyone on board drowned? Those who didn't ended up bitten or eaten by the mighty black caimans and were glad to die. Did I tell you that her father and brothers who had accompanied her also perished?”

“No,” Monica said, wondering if a caiman was like a crocodile, but not wanting to sound stupid by asking. “How sad! I can't believe she could continue.”

Jean-Michel slapped the coffee table again. “Damn it, if you don't believe what I'm saying then get out.”

He pointed to the door, and Monica started to cry. She was so tired, cold and hungry, and her clouded mind could take no more. All she could think of doing was to make love with Jean-Michel, to verify that she'd felt something unique, something life-altering, with him. She wanted to return to their first few idyllic hours together when she'd been swept off her feet. And if she didn't recapture that feeling, then she would have to escape this morgue––before he locked her in all alone again.

He ignored her tears, glaring petulantly towards the door. Monica straddled him and covered his face with kisses, hoping to seduce him again, but he pushed her aside as though she were a pesky lap dog licking him.

“So, as I was saying, Isabel Casamayor traveled the rest of the way alone. And naked, I might add.” He slapped Monica's buttocks not-so-gently. “But she made it to the mouth of the mighty Amazon and landed in her husband's arms––twenty years after she'd last seen her beloved.”

Monica was still kissing and caressing him, but her mind was whirring, thinking of ways to leave his cage. But his story was over, and she had to think of something to say.

“How does the toucan remind you of Isabel?” she managed to ask.

He picked up Monica and carried her back to the bedroom. She wasn't thrilled to be back here again, with its now-silent menagerie, but she wasn't about to admit that to Jean-Michel. They both leaned against the window where the stuffed toucan dwelled mute and motionless.

“It is said that this true-blue toucan made her home on the balsa wood raft that floated down the Amazon with Isabel on it, and…” Jean-Michel broke off abruptly and looked out the window. “
Putain
, what are they doing here?”

“Who?” asked Monica.

“Never mind. Put your clothes on––they're in the black bag,” he ordered. “You need to go. Quick, dress and run down the stairs. Talk to no one. I know where you live, and I'll come and fetch you.”

Monica ran to the living room, her heart thumping. She found the black bag and grabbed her clothes, relieved to see them again. She slipped on the blue dress over her naked body, and hurried to the front door, shoes in hand. This time the outer door was unlocked.

“Don't forget that you're mine––and that I love you,” Jean-Michel called, as Monica slipped out, almost skidding on the shiny floor.

She made her way down the staircase, not replying until she heard Jean-Michel's footsteps and realized he'd come out of the apartment to watch her go. She looked up at his handsome and forlorn face and her heart melted

“I, uh, I love you, too,” she said, and then ran down the stairs, just as he'd commanded.

T
he famous
grisaille
of Paris, the all-encompassing, monochromatic gray brushstrokes of the city, intermittently camouflaged Monica as she lurked from street to alleyway. She was on her way back to Madame Caron de Pichet's grand old house, trying not to notice if people stared at her or judged her for daring to walk out in public looking like an exhausted, sex-crazed waif. Monica knew that the transparency of the diaphanous dress revealed every frozen feature of her body and perhaps even announced to passing pedestrians that she had allowed a total stranger to invade her body and mind. She scampered anxiously back to the Rue de Condé, trying to cover herself with open palms but knowing it really did no good.

Monica passed the concierge's open door, ignoring the old woman's look of disdain, and climbed the stairs to her room, feeling drained and ashamed. When she reached Madame's front door, Monica sighed in relief. She'd finally escaped Jean-Michel's confusing cage of fear and dominance. Yet despite herself she shivered, knowing at the back of her mind that she still craved to relive those extreme, intimate moments with Jean-Michel––again and again.

In her state of turmoil, Monica attempted to bypass the salon where each and every evening Madame Caron de Pichet reigned supreme. But she was out of luck. The elderly landlady sat in her Recamier, lights off, shaking her half-f, rounded belly glass––as if in a trance.

“
Mon Dieu
,” she cried out at Monica's spectral appearance, “what has happened to you, child?”

“A lot, but, I, I'm going to bed now.”

“
Mais, non
, you must get it off your chest. It is therapeutic,” insisted Madame Caron de Pichet. “Besides there isn't anything so horrible that you can describe to me that I have not already experienced. Tell me, dear girl––maybe I can help.”

“My brain is so addled with conflicting emotions, Madame,” admitted Monica, sidling closer to the lady's chair. “I don't know where to begin.”

“Always begin with pleasure, dear. Soon enough, life will definitely knock the wind out of you.” Madame gazed at Monica's pained face with compassion. “Or perhaps you already know all about disillusionment?”

Monica turned to walk out of the salon, but Madame grabbed her dangling hand.

“Start wherever you want––just get it all out!” She shook the ice cubes in the Armagnac glass as if she were throwing dice in the game of life. “You don't want to end up like me, do you?”

“You seem to lead a gracious life, and I love all the stories you've told me about your heroism with the
Résistance
during the war. Why wouldn't I want to stay and live in Paris… forever?”

“Ah, you do see the world with rose-colored glasses, don't you?” Madame took a sip. “Paris is my home, and I know it inside and out. True, I once was bold and beautiful during the war, but alas, those times are forgotten by all. But, even now, in my old age, I will never sink in the depths of the Seine since I know its murky waters too well.” She squeezed Monica's hand, and the American girl winced.

“But,” Madame continued, “a young woman in today's dangerous streets might get caught in a crosswind. Isn't that what happened? You look like you were either tossed in a storm or in a rough bed? Which one was it?” She squinted––clearly hoping for the latter.

Monica hesitated and drew back her hand from Madame's grasp. Slowly she poked at her cuticles, drawing a drop of blood as she pricked the skin. “I guess it was a bit of both, Madame.”

“And the rough action in bed was not to your taste?” Madame probed. Monica blushed and looked down at her bare feet. “Don't be such a prude, my dear! Anyone can tell what you've been up to. What I want to know is why, after an absence of two nights with your
amour
, you arrive back here looking distraught. What went wrong?”

“The beginning of the first night with Jean-Michel was perfect, like a dream come true… and then, he, uh, he…”

“Did he hurt you?”

Monica clamped her legs together, and remembered the thrill of Jean-Michel's bite on her inner thigh. “I, I guess not. I mean, I'm dying to see him again. It's just that, well, I…”

“Why don't you just sit here and calm down, and let me tell you about the awful events taking place in Paris the last couple of days. They are the reason I need another drink.” Madame reached for the bottle on the little table next to her chair, and poured herself another generous glass of Armagnac. “You may have heard that two days ago a man blew himself up in an exquisite wine cellar, leaving behind only his foot, and destroying all the Bordeaux. Isn't that such an ironic kick?”

With one of her dainty shoes, Madame nudged her dog's ball towards a corner of the salon, and laughed as if she'd just uttered the cleverest
bon mot
and scored a goal simultaneously.

“Gee, I'm sorry to hear that, Madame.”

“But that was not enough. It appears that these Basque revolutionaries caused even bigger damage in a series of explosions near the French-Spanish border. Can you believe that these imbeciles roam our Parisian avenues every day, plotting ways to humble the Spanish government for not honoring hundred-year-old pacts, and for forbidding them to speak their prehistoric language? It's so very
passé
.” Madame yawned for theatrical effect. “Now, in my day, we never hurt innocent bystanders with our
Résistance
activities. We knew how to entice the odious German officers into divulging secrets that we then passed on to other more militant members of the
Résistance
, and then––”

“I'm sorry, Madame, but I'm really tired. Would you excuse me?”

“But I insist that you tell me what happened to you. You're my little charge, my responsibility.” She stroked Monica's cheek as if she were a sad child.

“Thank you. OK, I'll stay a bit longer. But please tell me about what's been happening the past few days–it sounds so scary.”

“It seems that these Basque revolutionaries pair up with their girlfriends to cause havoc. Hold on. Our tattle-tale concierge just handed me this newspaper clipping.” Madame rose and teetered over to a Chinoiserie desk stacked with old ecru invitations to past galas. She picked through one or two, sighed, and finally retrieved the wine-stained newspaper article. “It appears that Paris is a hotbed of cool-as-cucumber radicals who plan their future attacks––back in their own country––from the teeming cafés of the
Quartier Latin
.”

Madame handed the news clipping to Monica, but Monica squinted at it, uncomprehending, and handed it back.

“My French isn't that good, yet,” she apologized.

“Well, then you must get yourself a French boyfriend, or better yet––a French lover or two. What do you think?” She rubbed her hands in anticipation.

Monica shrugged. “What does the article say about the girlfriends of these, uh, revolutionaries?”

“These Basque women activists join their men because they have an emotional attachment to them and not necessarily because they have an ideological commitment to their cause. It says that every time the Spanish police nab these women, they inevitably admit to having a loved one in prison or active in a commando unit.”

“That's admirable, I guess,” said Monica. “I mean, these women also believe that they can change the world. I don't really know who the Basques are or what they're fighting for, but I believe that if you love someone, you have to take their joy as well as their pain.”

“Nonsense, child! A woman must embrace the cause or get out of the fight. When most of these Basque women go to trial, they blame their love for their men as compelling them into subversive activities. Such drivel! Either a woman jumps into the fight, with all her wits, or she stays out. Can you believe that
this
woman––” Madame pointed to the stained newspaper clipping––“this woman, she stated in court that all she wanted was to be able to speak her Basque language in public without getting punished. She said she didn't want to be perceived as a bad girl! You would think that she was at confession, not in a courtroom. She should not worry if she will be perceived as a good or bad girl–it's always about the cause, not the man. We didn't equivocate in the
Résistance
, I can tell you. We did what we had to do, and I never lost a minute of sleep over it. To be a tough woman you need balls of steel, my dear.”

Both women paused to reflect on their perspectives of love and war. Madame sipped her Armagnac with her eyes closed, and Monica stared out the window of the somber salon. Their decades of age difference showed itself like the all-too-evident difference between a Beaujolais Nouveau––aromatic but too fresh––and vintage Bordeaux––beautifully balanced and nuanced.

Afraid that Madame was about to launch into a long personal history again, Monica asked the whereabouts of her housemates.

“Pfft, half of them have left me high and dry. Karen didn't even say goodbye––she just left a note telling me that she is moving into a dorm room with other Americans. Good riddance! She'll never learn a word of French living with Americans.”

“What about Annie and Lola?” Monica frowned.

“It appears that Annie has been seduced by a literature professor––a known Sorbonne lecher. There's no bigger fool that a young woman who thinks her Svengali will transform her into … into, whatever it is that
la petite
Annie wants to be. I haven't seen her for days.”

“Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go and say hi to Lola––”

“Ha! That clever girl is down in the Loire Valley, doing some kind of assignment on the castles of the Loire. Or so she said. We all know that
belle rousse
does what she wants––she's audacious!”

“Do you think that she went with our art class?” Monica was suddenly worried. Maybe she was missing out on an important assignment.

Madame shrugged.

“She did not say, but …hmmm. Maybe you should leave tomorrow morning and join her. Better yet, go and sketch at the wonderful grounds of my dear old friend's
château
in Chinon. I'll contact my friend in the morning. We will get you packed right away.” Madame was worried about Monica. She didn't know all the details, but it seemed vital to distance Monica from the man who so quickly had turned her from a fresh-eyed girl to one who had barely weathered the eye of the storm.

“Oh, I'm not sure I should go … unless my art class is there. I'd rather stay in Paris and wait for Jean-Michel to contact me.” Monica peeled back another bloody hangnail.

Madame grimaced at the slow and methodical way that Monica inflicted pain on herself. She shook the ice cubes again, as if she were sitting at the crap tables in Monte Carlo, and took a sip. Days ago, Monica had seemed happy, as if she were on a hot roll of the dice herself, throwing winning number after winning number. But her behavior tonight––looking bruised and dazed, and peeling back her bloody cuticles without flinching––suggested that Monica was losing her throws to the house, to this Jean-Michel, who had somehow intimidated and overpowered her and allowed her to walk home barefoot, dangling a single strappy heel, shaming herself in front of all of Paris.

“Now I
do
recall,” Madame said slowly, “Lola said she was going on an art class assignment to the Loire Valley.” This was of course a lie. But she had to get Monica out of Paris, to let her frail and obviously battered heart recuperate away from this domineering scoundrel.

“Are you sure that your friend will let me stay at her
château
until I make contact with Lola?” Monica sounded hopeful.

“But of course, my dear. You go and pack and forget this cad, this Jean-Michel. Besides, who says you must have just one boyfriend? It's so much fun to have two––or more.”

Monica had to laugh at Madame's nerve. “I don't think I can do that.”

“But of course you can, and you will.” Madame raised a painted eyebrow. “Next time, make the man chase
you
. It is cliché, yes, but true, darling. You must play one against the other. Men so love games and the hunt. Make them pant with exhaustion at the chase, but never ever give them your heart.
Jamais
!”