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‘Onwards then.À la recherche du pain perdu!’
‘Oh dear God,’ she said, but she was laughing all the same.
Halte Humanitaire, rue Perrault, Paris
One of the tables pushed against the side wall of the room was piled high with a heap of assorted clothes. Tossing aside light tops and summer dresses, Yeva Bortnik pulled out a crimson hoodie with the wordsHarvard Universityin tall white letters on the front. She held it up, measuring it against her torso. It was big, she thought. That was good. It would be baggy and shapeless on her. Also, it might serve as a sort of camouflage in this part of town. She rolled it up and stuffed it into her bag.
An A4 page taped to the front edge of the next table identified it as a repository ofArticles de Toilettes Essentiels. As Yeva approached, a white-haired woman took up a supervisory position behind the table, smiling broadly.
‘D’où viens-tu?’
Yeva shook her head to pretend a lack of understanding. She hadn’t the slightest intention of telling the woman where she was from. The woman’s smile faded.
‘Es-tu seule?’
Yes, obviously, she was alone.Stupid woman.Keeping her head down, Yeva reached out for one of the brown ready-packed bags of toiletries on the table.
The woman put a hand over hers. ‘Qui t’accompagne?’
Yeva, accompanied by nobody, snatched back her hand, grabbed the paper bag and walked briskly out the door.
All Lit Up
At Saint-Michel station, the ancient elevator might have seemed quaint had they not been packed in like so many sardines. Claire backed into the corner.
‘It’s very hot,’ she muttered, pulling at the neckline of her dress.
‘It’s fine, it’ll only be a few seconds.’
It wasn’t, though. It was more than a minute, maybe even two, that chugging climb from the bowels of the city upwards. That was not an inconsiderable length of time, she thought, to be crushed with a dozen other people in a space designed for two – or, if they were slim-hipped French people, maybe four. She wasn’t made for this. She felt trapped. The air in the elevator was stale with the smell of cold earth and garlicky sweat. It brought back the memory of a crowded Métro and an uninvited hand exploring her 19-year-old bum.
Annoyed with herself, Claire looked up into Ronan’s face. He was looking right at her, one hand either side of her hips, completely body-blocking her from the threat of over-friendly natives.
They’d lost an hour in the time difference, so it wasn’t far off six, Paris time, when they emerged into daylight at the junction of a pedestrian alleyway and a busy street. Commuters bustled and bumped them, while Claire, with her back to the closed end of a newsstand, fought to unfold her paper street map and Ronan flicked his phone to Google Maps. Just as Claire figured out that she was facing east, the truck behind Ronan’s back inched forwards to reveal the Seine flowing steadily at the other side of the road and, right there on the opposite bank, Notre-Dame de Paris. It was breathtaking, the sight of it, instantly recognisable despite the fretwork of scaffolding and the clear blue sky where its spire should have been.
‘Nous somme arrivés.’ Claire grinned.
They crossed the road for a better look. She pulled her camera from her backpack and snapped a photo.
‘God,’ said Ronan. ‘It’s like an animal trying to get out.’
Claire looked again, tilting her head a bit, and saw what he meant. The cathedral had the presence of a living thing, as if it might visibly expand by breathing at any moment or release a growl or even take a step forwards.
She checked her watch again.
‘We better keep moving, in case they close.’
They recrossed the road holding hands and got honked at by a taxi driver. Claire realised, too late, that they’d both checked traffic in the wrong direction. Ronan offered a salute of apology and pulled her to the footpath.
Rounding the corner to rue de la Bûcherie, their jog was brought to a stumbling halt by the long queue snaking from the door of the bookshop.
* * *
It was rewatchingBefore Sunsetthat had inspired her to go straight to Shakespeare and Company to get them each a book for the weekend, something perfectly suited and stamped with the shop’s logo. This was the next step in her self-prescribed plan of action – after her splurge in duty-free or whatever they called it now, and champagne on the plane – to make it good. It wasn’t that Paris needed her help, but that she needed to give herself licence to indulge.
‘Ah, feck it,’ said Claire. ‘I can’t face that queue.’
‘Shite,’ said Ronan. ‘Me neither.’
