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I took the napkin. It was me, sketched in pencil. A profile. My arm was long and somewhat elegant in this rendering; my elbow propped on the table, my hand vanishing under my hair as I rested my chin on my palm. My eyes were cast down. Sad.
I stiffened and tried to hand the napkin back. “I don’t want it.”
The waiter only shrugged, smiled, and moved on. I pulled my hand back and stared at the sketch once more. The attractive guy made this napkin doodle. I was sure of it.
“It’s probably how he reels in a new woman ever week,” I muttered aloud in English. “No thanks.”
But instead of leaving the napkin on the table, I tossed it into my bag, and headed out.
Janey
Monday morning, I dressed in a sleeveless blouse with an orange checkered print, a white skirt, and white, knee-high boots. Portfolio tucked under arm, I headed to the journalism department at the Sorbonne to plead my case.
The office door of the editor-in-chief of the university newspaper said Antoine Heloin. He was a tall, serious-looking guy in a black shirt and tan corduroys. His gaze lingered too long on my legs before he finally perused my portfolio from the other side of a cluttered desk. A photo of the Earth as seen from the moon hung on his wall.
“Impressive,” Antoine said, flipping through Xerox copies of articles I’d written, covering the various academic activities and sports teams at UCSB. My hopes rose as he came to the end and lingered over the glossy black and white protest photos I’d taken just before leaving the States. “Very impressive. I think I have the perfect assignment for you.”
I sat up straighter. “I’m ready for anything.”
“The Paris Central football team is a few points away from third place in their division. If they can get into third—or higher—they will advance up to Ligue 2, a professional league. We’d already set up an interview late this afternoon with their star forward, Adrien Rousseau, but our sports writer is ill and can’t do it.” Antoine reached over the desk to hand me a small file folder and a piece of paper with an address on it. “The job is yours.”
I took the paper slowly, my hopes deflating. “Soccer? You want me to interview a soccer player?”
“In France we say football, Mademoiselle,” Antoine said. “I know it’s not a popular sport in America, but to the rest of the world, it is everything. If you knew what an honor this assignment was, perhaps you would not look so sour now.” He shrugged. “Although, I can always give it to someone else...”
And I get nothing.
I stiffened, and tucked the folder into my portfolio. “Deadline?”
“Two days.”
“Is there anything I should know about Adrien Rousseau?”
Aside from the fact he’s probably a giant, egotistical asshole, like every other athlete I’ve ever had to interview.
“He is the best center forward the sport has seen in a generation.” He raised his hands as if nothing else mattered. “And a medical student. He’s rich. The girls love him.” He gave me an almost clinical up-and-down glance. “You’re just his type, too. Try to stay focused on the job at hand. If you can.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ll have the interview with a photo spread in two days.”
“Fantastique.”
I rose to my feet and flipped a lock of hair over my shoulder. “In America, monsieur, we say groovy.”
That afternoon, I grabbed a map to guide me to the Rousseau residence. The air was sticky with early summer humidity as I made my way to the 16th Arrondissement. The map told me the Rousseau residence was close to the major soccer stadium, Place des Princes, and a smaller stadium called the Stade Jean-Marc, where Adrien Rousseau played with his team.
On the train, I read the background info in the folder Antoine had given me. Adrien was a second-year medical student at the Sorbonne, and the star center forward on Paris Central. The team was in a division called Championnat National but could advance if they had enough points.
I shut the folder with as snap. I didn’t understand this soccer stuff—the European system was a mystery to me—but it looked like Championnat National was a third division league, below the real professionals.
My irritation mounted. I wanted a Big Story, not to dodge the advances of a second-rate athlete and write yet another puff piece to stroke his ego.
I spat a curse as I made my way down an elegant boulevard lined with gorgeous 19th Century buildings, one tucked tight to the next. The 16th arrondissement reminded me of the Upper West Side of Manhatt
an. It screamed ‘old money’ and I guessed the Rousseau family had their fair share. Their home was like every other here—three-stories of beige stonework, with wrought iron balconies along every window.
But as I made my way up the three steps to the front door, I noticed rust along the gate, and my knuckles scraped peeling paint when I knocked on the door.
“A moment!” came a soft, feminine voice on the other side—high-pitched and strained—as if unused to rising louder than a whisper. I heard a strange clanking of metal and then someone struggling with the door lock.
