I watch him pace through three laps before I become self-conscious of my reflection at the window and move to sit on one of the sofas.
Ames returns presently with a glass and a minibottle of Pellegrino on a lacquer serving tray. I am mesmerized by his presentation, the way he snaps the linen napkin, the angle of his wrist, the oval cuff links. So much fanfare for a glass of water.
“Alors!You are alive!” Her voice rings out from the entry, and I rise like a schoolgirl at attendance.
She is wearing a robe. Silk, belted. Japanese, I guess as she sweeps into the room. She’s barefoot, but still taller than me, grasping my arms and kissing both cheeks in the French way. She smells divine. Cloves and rose and cinnamon and sandalwood. I decide in that moment that it is uniquely Anouk.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Better. Thank you.”
She pulls back to fully assess me, and in turn I get my first real look at her. Her hair is blown straight, a chic bob that just brushes her shoulders, highlighting her elongated neck. She has on no makeup and there is something honest and revealing about her naked face. Her angles have changed since the first time we met, the time she seems to not remember. Her cheeks are less full, her lips more thin, and yet she is still undeniably exquisite. The light embraces her features. Dances over her cheekbones and the contour of her jawline. Kisses all the curves and planes of her face. It is a gift to have a face like this, I think. To move through the world bearing such beauty.
“You have stitches, no?” she asks.
I reach up to touch the wound. The scar tissue is slightly raised, but I’ve hidden it by altering my part. “Out yesterday.”
“And the concussion?”
“Better.”
“You were lucky.” She smiles then, illuminated from within. There is something about her that is ethereal and elusive and magnetic, and it is easy to remember why the whole world loved her. Why I loved her.
“I apologize for stopping by unannounced,” I begin my speech, as Ames slips out the far door, “but I didn’t have your number and our assistant—myhusband’sassistant—had the photo of your driver’s license for the insurance company and I really wanted to thank you personally. It didn’t dawn on me until much later why I recognized you.…” I’m rambling now.
She nods, smiling faintly. She probably gets this a lot.
“I imagine it was the concussion. But I worked with you once, a long time ago.”
“You did?”
“In the nineties. You were… We were young.”
She cocks her head, trying to remember. “Here? In LA?”
“Mexico. Cabo San Lucas. I used to assist Didier Moulin.”
Something curious passes over her face. I’m not quite certain what. But it’s there for a flash and then it’s not. She smiles, recovering. “Didier. What a character…”
I anticipate more, but for the moment she’s finished.
Whether she remembers that week and is avoiding it or has locked it so far into her subconscious that she can’t access it is beyond me. Either way, it’s not my place to push. I reach for a much-needed sip of sparkling water and regroup.
“Anyway, I know Nadia’s insurance is taking care of everything, but I’m still haunted by the accident, and at the very least, I wanted to thank you for your kindness,” I say, grabbing the gift bag from the sofa and putting it in her hands.
“Oh,c’est pas nécessaire. This wasn’t necessary.”
“I speak French.”
“Ah, oui, c’est vrai, your husband is French. He was very worried.” She struggles with the word.Wah-reedt.It’s endearing. I know what it’s like to speak a language every day for twenty years and still not get it right. To live in a space where you never feel fully understood.
I was seven when we moved from Kingston to Westchester County, New York. I wore ankle socks with patent-leather shoes and grosgrainribbons in my hair. And I spoke with an accent. Assimilating into white America was tedious. Assimilating into Black America was even more so. Something about resembling a group genetically and yet having almost no cultural ties. I was twenty-seven when I moved to Paris and did it all over again.
Anouk takes her time unwrapping the towel and reading the card, which I’d written in French, and I turn my attention back to the swimming pool, where her husband, if that is indeed her husband, is still swimming laps. He’s moved on from the crawl to the butterfly.
“C’est très gentil de ta part, Cecilia. Merci.”
“De rien.”
