Page 33 of Beautiful Losers

I watched a documentary once about something called Paris Syndrome. It’s a terrible malady that afflicts thirty-something Japanese women visiting the City of Lights for the first time. They step off the plane, high on the dream, the Hollywood version of Paris us non-French have been sold since birth. Before long, they discover that Parisians are about as hospitable as that ‘hell’ planet astronomers discovered a few years ago (the one with the raining rocks and sixty-mile-deep lava seas), and that the streets are scented with dog shit, not Chanel No. 5. This disconnect between the promise of Paris and reality is so jarring, it can induce serious physical and psychological symptoms, such as sweating, nausea, vomiting, even hallucinations. One woman’s symptoms were so severe, she had to be airlifted back to Tokyo. The Japanese government advises those of a sensitive disposition to avoid all unnecessary travel to the French capital. There is no known cure for Paris Syndrome.

I visited Paris, just the one time, on a college trip to Tours, birthplace of the French novelist Honoré de Balzac. I took the train up to the capital at the end of the week to meet Cillian. We’d been friends for eight months, a sufficient amount of time, I thought, for there to be something real between us, for meaningful sexy times to take place, for me to know that I could say things like ‘sexy times’ in his company and not feel judged.

The night before he was due to arrive, I stayed in a hostel in Saint-Germain, waking up the next morning to find my backpack and bumbag missing. (This was 2003, long before the fanny pack revival, when bumbags were the sole preserve of tourists and those who appreciated maximum efficiency in their daily lives.) I checked my phone. There was a text from Cillian apologising – he wasn’t going to make it. He’d met a Spanish girl at a festival, and on a whim they’d driven down to Kerry. He wanted to show her Fungie, the famous dolphin that had been circling the waters around Dingle for years. Cillian knew I’d understand. It was Fungie, and this girl, well, she was special. And sure, didn’t I prefer my own company? I was a free spirit. He loved that about me. I didn’t need people like he did.

I spent the next two days filling in emergency passport forms at various McDonald’s. I’ve never been a huge fast-food fan, but you know what you’re getting from a Filet-O-Fish. It’s not like going to some much-hyped restaurant, expecting a gastronomic revelation only to wind up with indigestion. You can rest assured that wherever you go in the world, the combination of pollock and breadcrumbs and tartare sauce will taste exactly the same. Few things in life are as dependable.

As I sat under the fluorescent strip lights of theGolden Arches in Place Pigalle I realised how stupid I’d been. To assume my relationship status with Cillian would change because we were due to spend a couple of nights in the Most Romantic City in the World. Paris was just a city. With pollution and homelessness, like any other city. And I thought about what Balzac said about contentment. How every moment of joy requires a certain amount of ignorance. Sometimes, I wonder which is better – to see the world as it is and be miserable? Or to stay in the dark and be happy?

20

I take Ari and Myriam on a day trip to the aqua park. We find a sheltered spot beneath a pine tree and I lather Ari in factor 50 suncream, while Myriam unpacks the picnic I prepared – baguettes, hummus, crisps and sun-dried tomatoes, and a peach tart for dessert. I bought the tart from Utopie, hoping to catch another glimpse of the woman I saw with Jack. The only other person there was a boy around Myriam’s age. He was standing behind the counter, dusting shelves, and smiled shyly when I entered the shop. Sabrina didn’t introduce us, so I’ve no idea if he’s a recent hire or has anything to do with her new house guest.

After lunch, Ari asks if we can bring Margaret to the pool with us.

‘No, baby, she’ll get all wet,’ I say, squeezing a sun hat that extends down the back of the neck onto his head. ‘Let’s leave her here while we swim.’

‘What if someone takes her?’ he frets.

‘That won’t happen. Look, I’ll pop her under the blanket and she can watch our stuff for us.’

I tie a flotation belt around Ari’s waist and push water wings over his skinny arms, squeezing them to ensure maximum inflation.

‘I am worried he does not have enough protection,’ Myriam deadpans as I search my bag for Ari’s sunglasses.

‘Sun or water protection? Should I have bought him one of those UPF suits?’ I say, concerned.

Myriam raises a pair of perfectly shaped eyebrows over her sunglasses and I realise she’s making fun of me. It feels like a turning point in our relationship.

‘I need to relax, don’t I?’ I say.

She shrugs. ‘Ari is your world. We do everything we can for the things that matter to us.’

The comment feels loaded somehow, more than a mere observation on helicopter parenting. It feels like an opening, the right time to get Myriam to confide in me. As usual, her phone goes off. She tuts loudly and tells me to go ahead without her.

I think I’ve figured out what Myriam’s been hiding. We were weeding in the garden the other day, listening to a debate on the radio while we worked. A panel was discussing a recent spate of disruptive climate demonstrations across France. They were speaking too quickly for me to catch everything, but I got the gist of it. The host asked his guests what they thought of the interior minister’s plans to criminalise protests. In a controversial speech, she threatened chain-gang punishment for activists blocking motorways and public transport routes.One of the guests said all climate activists should be put on a terrorist watchlist alongside neo-Nazi and Islamic extremist groups. Myriam, who had her back to me, stiffened when he said this, a fistful of weeds and soil slipping through her fingers as she tightened her grip.

It hit me then. Myriam was part of the group that kidnapped the oil executive! It would explain a lot of unusual behaviour – the conspiratorial phone calls and messages, the disappearing acts – and why the owners didn’t respond when I said their niece had turned up unannounced. They didn’t have a niece! Plus, she fit the description of the kidnapper who let the man go. Female, early twenties, economical with words. She had to be involved.

It’s a relief to have finally identified the source of Myriam’s guardedness, although I can’t say I’m thrilled at the thought of harbouring a fugitive. I’m not concerned for Ari’s safety. Myriam is great with him and he adores her. And if the gendarmes do come knocking at my door, I have plausible deniability. Myriam has told me nothing. I suppose it’s more a moral question. How do I feel about breaking the law, infringing on someone’s rights for the greater good? Then again, this Big Oil guy doesn’t seem too bothered about infringing on the rights of the entire global population.

I can go over it as much as I like. Deep down, I know the decision has already been made. Whatever happens, whatever ethical grey zone I’ve wandered into, Myriam is right. We do everything we can for the things that matter to us. And Myriam, I’ve come to realise, matters.

~

Ari and Myriam sleep on the journey home, their heads touching. (Myriam said she used to get car sick as a child and insisted on sitting beside Ari in case he needed to throw up.) I leave them in the car when we arrive at the guesthouse, and carry two bags of groceries I picked up en route into the kitchen. I catch sight of myself in the mirrored armoire in the corner of the room. I’m still wearing my pale blue swimsuit beneath a pair of cut-off denim shorts. I’ve left my hair down to dry, its kinks and waves celebrating a rare moment of liberation. My skin has started to brown ever so slightly, a first for me. I look vital, happy.

I put the bags on the counter and start unpacking. Jack walks in from the garden, whistling. He stops when he sees me, his eyes drifting fleetingly across my body.

‘Hello,’ he says.

‘Hello.’ I attempt a casual smile, unnerved by his sudden presence.

‘Leonard was just giving me an education in the women in Leonard Cohen’s life.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s that going? I believe he had a pretty extensive back catalogue.’

‘Leonard – our Leonard – says Marianne Ihlen was Cohen’s greatest love.’

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