Page 10 of The Crimson Lily
Béatrice inhales deeply and changes the subject, answering what I asked a few questions ago. “I got a postdoc position here, at Paris 1,” she says with a proud yet wistful smile. “Remember the one I denied after I got my PhD? It was open, and they still wanted me for the job! I’m staying with my family until I find an apartment here in Paris.”
Béatrice was given an offer from Paris 1 after graduation, but she wanted to stay at Columbia. I remember something else now. William was never really fond of Béatrice. I spent days and nights fighting with the board, bypassing the William tollgate, to let her have the job she more than deserved. Béatrice was the only logical choice for this postdoc position. I remember feeling frustrated and helpless because my best friend was being discriminated against. In the end, I won the battle. William got a warning from the board, and I still savor my victory to this day. Except that now, Béatrice was fired by the same asshole, and a day earlier, I was found by the side of the road with a darn bad concussion.
“I need to head back,” Béatrice says as she calls the waitress over. “I have a class to teach!” She then holds out her hand to me. “Give me your phone, I’ll give you my number.”
I unlock my cheap hundred-dollar good-for-Twitter device and hand it to her. She types +33 and nine other digits, then gives it back with a careful look in her eyes. “Please keep me updated with whatever you’re doing,” she requests.
I nod furtively. I’m definitely going to do that. If it were up to me, I’d be texting with her the whole time from now on. I don’t want to let her go, but her job calls. She pays for my coffee and I thank her a thousand times for meeting with me. She gives me two pecks on the cheek and heads back up the street toward a giant building in the distance that looks like a Greek temple. That’s probably the Panthéon. I don’t know for sure, but the name has etched itself into my mind.
I make my way back to the hotel, very slowly, on foot. Something tells me I don’t like the metro much. When I cross the majestic Pont des Arts, I see the Notre-Dame citadel in the distance. The scenery is simply…mesmerizing. I stay at least an hour looking at the view, cherishing it, because it’s the first time in this new life that I see this. I want to capture the moment, to carve it in my memory and never forget about it again.
Despite the memory loss, I still remember this city, almost by heart. It’s a long way back, and after a few wrong turns, I arrive just in time for dinner. I decide to order room service, as I’m not really in the mood to have people around. I order a simple plate of pasta funghi and put myself in front of French TV. I don’t understand a thing, but I enjoy every minute of whatever show is on. The pasta comes in, and when I ask if I can pay by card, the attendant tells me the meal has already been put on the room. I insist on paying for it myself, but he can’t change it anymore, and his English won’t help us there. Oh well, I’ll figure it out later with Mr. Business Class. Speaking of which, the Bratva phone beeps, making my brown purse sound like a house alarm. I check it, knowing exactly what sort of message I’ll see. More instructions, from a French number.
The reception starts at 20:00.
Clear, precise, and to the point. I instinctively save the number on both my phones, thinking it’s probably Maksim’s burner. Maybe I’ll need it at some point. I also understand exactly what the message means but doesn’t state. He needn’t add abe on timeordon’t be late. Ihaveto be on time, and I have absolutely no choice in the matter. At least the pasta funghi tastes nice.
5
What better place to find a fancy dress than the renowned Galeries Lafayette? A few steps away from the hotel lies the entrance to yet another eye-catching building. When I walk in, I only have eyes for the glass ceiling and the hundreds of colors scattered around me. I then lose myself drooling in front of sparkling watches, expensive makeup, rings, and earrings. It’s all so shiny I can’t stop looking at it.
I go through each floor and pass by designer shops, checking each dress or formal wear that looks pretty, and immediately run away when I see the prices. Man, I can’t afford a dress here. It’s like the higher I go, the higher the price tags, and now I’m about to have a silly panic attack. I’m not going to find a fancy dress. Not here. Not ever. I didn’t know dresses could be worth a month’s rent. But then I figure it’s the standard for these designer brands. I feel silly, and for a split second, I’m fiddling with Maksim’s credit card in my hand, considering it. No. I can’t let my ego down like that.
I start to look closer and do my best not to get distracted again by shiny objects. I find a few shops where the prices are half the rent. I can do that. I start noticing a pattern in colorsand prices, and I follow this clue to find more affordable shops. There’s a red dress with a plunging V-neck that seems nice, but my breasts basically escape out of it when I try it on. I have to ask the nice, middle-aged, French shopkeeper, who looks like she was pulled out of an 80s movie, what would be suitable to wear for an artists’ reception. First, she starts talking to me about how much she loves art. Then, she tells me I’d better go for darker colors and nothing too flashy. All right, no yellow, then. I find a slim-fit black dress with a collar adorned with pretty little diamonds. The same lady tells me black is too simple. I assure her that simple is exactly what I’m going for since I don’t really want to stand out. She insists that with my long, wavy, blond hair and sculpted collarbone, I need to find something that complements my good looks. It feels nice to hear that from her, that I am a beautiful woman. I have a little moment of glee, but then I figure she says this to all the ladies. Even though I don’t find anything in her shop, I still thank her for her help and head out. It’s the same story for the next three shops I visit. Half the rent, but no dress that won’t free my breasts or be so tight that I look like a wine barrel.
But then, out of all expectations, my heart stops when I turn around.
There I am, petrified in front of a showcase burgundy velvet dress, at a shop where the price tag reads…€650. Ouch. That dress, ladies and gentlemen, is the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. I know it’ll fit me. I just know. I check my phone—no internet.Duh. If I recall correctly, I still have about $1,200 in my bank account. This will hurt, but we are just over halfway into the month, so I’ll survive. I go in and ask the man in black attire with a purple bowtie if I can try on the dress. He checks me out, head to feet, and smiles. I guess he doesn’t see my tiny bruise, or he chooses to ignore it.
“It’ll be perfect for you, dear!” he exclaims with his best French accent.
I know that, thank you. He hands me the same dress in what he deems to be my size, and I disappear into one of the numerous fitting rooms with electric-red doors. I discard my sneakers, take off my gray shirt and jeans, and stop and stare at the dress dangling on a simple black hanger. An acute stage-fright frenzy takes over me. Am I really going to wear that? This tight, knee-length velvet dress with short puff sleeves and a slim oval cut at the chest. The type of cleavage that could nearly allow someone to peek. The waist is adorned by two joint stripes of rounded dark-red jewels in a horizontal diamond that split in the back in an opening that will let my skin show. Now that I see it up close, the color leans more toward dark crimson than burgundy. Won’t this dress be a little too much for me? Just as red pumps aren’t my style, nor are fancy dresses. The realization hits me, right here, that I have never worn dresses, not even in my previous life. Maybe a formal business dress for my PhD defense. Oh, I remember my PhD defense now.
Screw it. I put on the dress. French guy was right. It’s perfect for me. I check myself out, repeatedly spinning on my heels to look at my figure and buttocks in the mirror. It matches my skin perfectly. It lets just enough of my breasts show to make it delicate, not vulgar.
“Is everything all right, madame?” the French man asks behind the red door.
I clear my throat. “Yes!” Then the impulse overtakes me. I have to show him. I open the door and expose myself.
“Wow!” he exclaims. He scans me head to feet again, now speechless.
He’s actually kind of cute—younger than me, and probably a student. I smile at him, then change back into my ordinary clothes and go spend half the rent on that red velvet dress. AsI’m standing by the counter, I see a pair of black heels that reminds me of Bratva-Olga’s red pumps. €200. Oh well, they’ll have to do. I don’t go for any jewelry; I don’t have time—money—for that.
On my way out of the Galeries, I stop by the makeup aisles to get mascara, eyeliner, and a nice, not-too-flashy lipstick—all under the advice of the beautiful lady at the counter, who gives me a free eyeshadow sample that willmake my eyes sparkle. At this point, an extra €50 won’t kill me. Outside, I check the paper bag she handed me, and I notice the additional sample of foundation she slipped in it. I figure she saw the bruise, and I figure she was a good Samaritan about it and gifted me with a way to mask it.
I’m sipping on a cup of coffee at the big crossing near the hotel. I stopped here for a short moment in the sun, to relax and enjoy the Parisian life. I love the coffee here. Sorry, Rajesh, but French coffee is just so much better. I lift my face to the sun, to appreciate the warm rays. The golden shimmers I can see through my eyelids soothe me, and as I open my lips slightly, I breathe in, opening my senses to the marvel that Paris is.
After this instant of stillness, I suddenly hear a loud, angry voice. A man shouting. I look in the direction of the commotion and see a man in a suit yelling at a fleeing taxi. The driver didn’t let him cross the road and almost ran into him or something. I’m about to look away when the reflection of the sun on the man’s silver briefcase strikes me in the eyes. I’m blinded for a second, then the images of a night in New York begin rolling before me.
A man pulls a gun to my head. I can see his face. I have no idea who it is.
Fuck. I am seeing the same man now, crossing the street, just a few steps away from me. Dark-brown hair, a beard, and a graysuit with a blue tie. I panic. I stand from my chair, leave a €5 bill—yes, I have euros now—and take off in the quickest of hurries.
I make it to the hotel, cast all my things on the nearest seat, and call…Maksim. Who doesn’t pick up. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I callinghim? What did I expect?
I dial Béatrice’s number. She doesn’t pick up either, but hearing her voicemail introduction makes me feel safe. I just tell her I feel lonely and wish to tell her about my day. She calls me back an hour later, and we talk for two more, about nothing and everything, until I finally have the guts to tell her what I saw.
“I don’t think my accident was an accident, Béa.” I speak like I’m confessing to a crime.
